Stregoni Benefici, Unico
by LisaLovesCurry
Summary: A companion to "Eternity," this series of stories will focus on episodes from Carlisle's life before he found and changed the other Cullens.
1. 1666

Hi everyone! Today, I'm finally starting my new story about Carlisle's years before he found the other Cullens: the title, "Stregoni Benefici, Unico," essentially means "The Beneficial Vampire, Alone." I'm not sure how often I'll be updating (maybe every other week?), but I've got a lot of ideas for stories about Carlisle, so we'll see what happens. (And just so you know, this story crosses over with "Eternity" a bit, which is why Liza appears in this chapter). This first chapter takes place during the Great Fire of London; the way I figure it, Carlisle was probably a vampire by then, and had been one for several months, so he might have risked a trip to London just in time to see the fire...

Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer, not I, is the author of "Twilight." :)

_September 1666: The Great Fire of London _

"Liza!" Carlisle called. "Liza?" Fire was rapidly devouring the crumbling building in which his friend—his only friend, as it happened—made her home. Carlisle gazed up at Liza's windows, which were covered in large quilts, and wondered, with senseless panic, if she could still be inside.

"Over here, you silly creature!" an irritable voice called, and Carlisle sighed, deeply relieved. Liza was standing in an alleyway across the street, her silver hair hanging in wild tendrils around her face. She was loaded down by boxes and bags of clothes, books, and what were clearly other treasured possessions she'd saved from her now smoldering house.

"I was hoping you might come by," she explained when Carlisle hurried over to her, crossing the street just before a panicked crowd of humans hurried past, racing to outrun the flames. "I need you to help me carry all this. It would look suspicious if anyone saw an old woman like me hauling so much without having any trouble."

"Here," Carlisle said, quickly slinging a makeshift bag over his shoulder and then picking up a tall stack of boxes. "Can you get the rest?"

"Yes, but go slowly," Liza cautioned him. "We need to look like we're struggling, just to be safe."

"Why not just run across the rooftops?" Carlisle wondered. "No one would notice us in the middle of all this."

Liza snorted. "Where's the fun in that? If you're serious about wanting to live among humans, then you need to practice mingling with them a bit, and you won't get a better chance than during a panic like this—even if you kill someone tonight, you probably won't be spotted. Now, come on, don't dawdle."

Carlisle sighed and followed her, the flames blazing in the streets behind them nothing compared to the burning he felt in his throat every time they passed a fleeing group of humans. This was only his second trip back to London since he'd become a vampire; for months, he'd lived in the wild, initially trying to kill himself, but later trying to control his thirst once he'd learned that he could live on the blood of animals instead of that of humans. He'd met Liza just weeks before, when she'd spotted him crouched on the edge of a roof late one night, draining the blood from a rat, and she'd promptly decided that he could use some help adjusting to his new life as a vampire.

Liza, the only vampire that Carlisle knew so far, had given him new clothes, books to read, and most importantly, she was someone he could talk to when he came to town. Carlisle didn't dare live in London, fearing that the temptation of human blood would be too much to resist, but while he made the forests that bordered the city his home, he enjoyed thinking of Liza in London and how he'd enjoy visiting her once he finished the books she'd loaned him. Of course, it was clear that in coming tonight, he'd chosen a poor time to visit.

"Here," Liza said, stopping on a grassy bank several streets beyond the fire. Quite a few humans had gathered in the streets to watch the progress of the fire, but on the bank, Carlisle and Liza were hidden beneath the shadows of an old tree. Liza set her belongings in the grass before sitting down and patting the ground beside her. Carlisle reluctantly sat down next to her.

"Shouldn't we get further away before we stop?"

"Further away from the humans, or further away from the fire?" Liza wondered, raising her eyebrows coyly.

"Both," Carlisle managed, gritting his teeth.

"You're the one who's determined to live alongside humans without killing any," Liza pointed out. "It's never going to get any easier to do that if you spend the rest of your days hiding in the woods."

Carlisle sighed, then drew in a pained breath; there was still a group of humans uncomfortably close, but they appeared to be moving farther away from where he and Liza sat. Carlisle knew that in spite of her brash demeanor, Liza really did want to help him adjust to this new life—her idea of adjustment just differed from his. In her opinion, he should stop worrying so much about killing humans and learn to compromise as she had: kill humans who were already dying, who were killers themselves, or who lived on the streets and would welcome a quick death compared to a slow demise by starvation. The way Liza saw it, what she did wasn't noble so much as practical. By hunting selectively as she did, Liza quenched her thirst while avoiding unwanted human attention and also giving dangerous or suffering humans the rapid demise they either deserved or desired.

"You know," Liza said suddenly, "you had better get used to people like me trying to order you about. When you were human, things like class mattered, but they don't among vampires. In London alone, there are coven leaders who were slaves once and more than one of noble birth. You might even get to meet some of them sometime, if you didn't insist on living in the wild like a savage beast."

Carlisle shook his head. "Class doesn't matter to me—it hardly did when I was human, and you're right, it certainly doesn't seem important now. I don't mind the way you talk to me, Liza."

"Then why are you sitting there looking so grumpy?" Liza demanded.

"All these vampires you're describing…well, they all drink human blood, don't they?"

It was Liza's turn to sigh now. "Yes, of course they do. Our kind _are_ rather famous for that."

"But we don't have to," Carlisle insisted. "My experiences prove that! I can't really be the first one of us to ever try to live this way, can I?"

"You might be," Liza said with a shrug. "Carlisle, when I was human, I did anything and everything I had to to survive. Just because I'm not human anymore doesn't mean that the desire to keep myself comfortable and well fed has disappeared. Most humans aren't really suited for a life of strict self-denial, and vampires certainly aren't. We feed the way we do because our instincts tell us to, so I have no compunction about my eating habits. You're a man of strong convictions, and I admire you for that, but you aren't going to change my mind about what, or rather, _who_ I drink."

Carlisle nodded. "I know, Liza. I'm not trying to lecture you or to imply that I disapprove of you. I don't agree, but I understand why you live the way you do."

"Likewise," Liza said with a smile. "So let's agree to disagree and not try to change one another. Trust me, you'll make more friends if you can overcome your aversion to your fellow vampires."

"I'm sure you're right," Carlisle said thoughtfully. "After all, it hasn't stopped me from being friends with you. So long as a vampire isn't going around snatching children out of their beds, I suppose I can learn to overlook our differences of opinion when it comes to diet."

"You can overlook it, but you can't condone it," Liza said shrewdly. "You're never going to join a coven unless you can find others who live like you, are you?"

"Why are you on your own then?" Carlisle countered. "You don't have the same difficulty I do when it comes to feeding."

"No coven in their right mind would have me, honestly," Liza said with a careless shrug. "I'm too old, too conspicuous. Most of our kind are physically young, you know. Of course, anyone who looks too young might draw the attention of the Volturi, but anyone older than most just seems odd, a liability in potentia. Whoever heard of an old vampire, after all? It's one thing to be young and beautiful forever, but imagine being my age for the rest of eternity."

"How old are you exactly?" Carlisle asked, smiling slightly.

Liza swatted his arm. "That's a cheeky thing to ask a lady and you know it, even if I am a lady in the loosest sense of the word."

Just then, a group of humans watching the progress of the fire drew closer to the spot where Carlisle and Liza sat. Though Carlisle had been enjoying their conversation, combative though it had been at times, he was abruptly desperately thirsty. Liza took in his pained expression and pushed a cloth bag toward him.

"Here. Some new books for you to borrow. Take those back to whatever godforsaken forest you're lurking in at the moment and bring them back to me when you're finished."

Carlisle was holding his breath, not daring to breath, but he looked at her questioningly.

"Go on," Liza said, pushing him toward the road. "Leave before you do something you'll regret later—don't stay here and spoil your spotless record on my account."

The words themselves were haughty, but Carlisle could tell by her smile that she was only teasing. With a nod of thanks, Carlisle turned and ran, eager to get away from London and the tantalizing scents of its human residents. Behind him, the sky glowed with an eerie orange radiance, and Carlisle wondered grimly just how long the city would remain in flames.


	2. 1673

Happy Sunday, everyone! Wow, I can't believe that Christmas is only three weeks away (saying this is, in part, my reminder to myself to finally do Christmas cards this week :)). In the spirit of the season, the awesome Mackenzie L has given me the gift of a beautiful banner for "Stregoni Benefici, Unico," which you can see here (delete the spaces before you hit 'enter' on the URL though):

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Thanks again Mackenzie! Carlisle looks so pretty! I'm going to work extra hard on this story now so that it lives up to its lovely banner. :) Today's chapter takes place a few years after chapter one; in it, Carlisle is starting to feel comfortable around humans, but it's still a bit of a thrill for him to meet other vampires. Thanks so much for your reviews and I'll see you again soon with another update! :)

Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer, not I, is the author of "Twilight" (though you knew that already :)).

_1673: The Test Act_

After a year at Oxford, Carlisle was still enjoying his newfound freedom to read whatever he wished and study to his heart's content. History, literature, science—every subject he'd never had a chance to learn about when he'd been human was now open to him, and though he sometimes had to take pains to avoid getting too close to his human classmates, whose blood still appealed to him with aggravating insistence, attending university wasn't as impossible as he'd feared a few years before. For one thing, humans tended to avoid him before he was forced to avoid them; his strange appearance, from his pallor to his strange golden eyes, made even men at Oxford—educated men who supposed themselves immune to superstitious fear—a little uneasy. He was accepted as a student at Jesus College, but aside from attending lectures for a few hours each day, Carlisle spent most of his time alone in the Bodleian Library, where he could study whatever he wished without making anyone uncomfortable, so long as he kept to quiet corners of the building.

It was usually during these hours he spent in carrels, surrounded by tall stacks of the books that were his day's reading, that he came as close as he dared to socializing with other young scholars. Of course, these interactions were one-sided. Carlisle simply overheard their conversations and then considered his own opinions on the matters they discussed: politics, philosophy, and music were all popular topics, and though Carlisle longed to join in these exchanges of ideas, it seemed safest to keep his distance. Though getting close to humans no longer pained him, so long as he hunted regularly, it pained him in a different way to see the instinctual fear he inspired in every human he spoke to. In his last letter to Liza, he'd mentioned his feelings of isolation, and she'd responded with characteristic frankness:

_ The problem, dear boy, is that you're not human, and so you've gotten out of practice doing the things that humans do. You need to fidget more—don't stand as still as a statue all the time, and for heaven's sake, remember to breathe! I know it's easier not to when you're near humans, but trust me, a little breathing can make all the difference in the world. People won't be friendly exactly, but you won't scare them quite so much if you can just learn to mimic them a bit better. Attending university alongside humans is a good start, but now, instead of flitting about them like a ghost, you need to start engaging them in conversation if you really want to make some kind of life among them. They're never going to come to you, so you'll have to go to them. Stop complaining that you're lonely and show some gumption, all right?_

Carlisle had rolled his eyes a little at that bit of advice. Liza barely left her flat except to hunt and buy or steal books, and he was certain that she never engaged random humans in conversation! No, what he needed was another vampire to talk to, and not just Liza, who was a willing correspondent, but who wasn't about to run to Oxford every time he fancied a chat.

The fact of the matter was, Carlisle _was_ rather lonely, though he took pains not to dwell on it. Intellectually, he was thriving now that he was out from under his father's thumb, but emotionally, he still struggled with his new life a bit. He was always aware of humans not just as potential friends, but as a potential food source, and so in spite of his desire to get closer to his classmates, he didn't really dare for fear of slipping in a moment of weakness. Perhaps in a few more years, and with the sort of practice that had Liza suggested, he might have human friends, but how long could such friendships last? Any human he befriended would age and eventually die, and anyway, it would be dangerous to continue such a relationship for too long—people would get suspicious when they realized that he never got any older. But the thought of spending eternity with no one for company but a series of casual acquaintances was a distinctly unpleasant one.

Privately, Carlisle was determined that the next time he went down to London, he would ask Liza for tips on locating other vampires. He knew by his sense of smell that there were vampires still lurking in the great city's sewers, but given the result of his last meeting with one of that lot, Carlisle disliked the idea of trying to befriend them. In spite of that feeling though, he was surprised to find that he no longer hated the vampire that had inadvertently changed him. On the whole, after seven years as an immortal, Carlisle was increasingly aware that what he had once considered a fate worse than death was now at least a manageable situation. Honestly, it wasn't nearly as bad he'd been taught to expect, and Carlisle sometimes smiled when he thought of what his father's response to such an outlook might be:

"Eternal damnation_ isn't as bad as you'd expected_? Have you taken leave of your senses, Carlisle?"

Of course, that was assuming that his father would say anything at all to him if they were ever to meet, which wouldn't happen. Now that he was a demon in his father's eyes, Carlisle knew that a burning torch and a mob like the one he'd led once were all he could expect if he ever ventured home. It was rather ironic that now that they would likely never speak again, Carlisle could think of so many things he wished he'd asked his father when he'd been alive: what had his mother been like? Why had he been named Carlisle? And how had his father come to his chosen profession? As a human, Carlisle had never dared venture such impertinent questions, but now, during long, quiet hours when his studies were over, or if he was forced inside by the sun, Carlisle pondered these things, and his nagging desire for at least occasional companionship, with grim resolve.

_I__ can__'__t __speak __to __my __father_, Carlisle finally said to himself after his second year at Oxford was over. _That__ part __of __my __life __is __finished, __so __now__ I __need __to __concentrate__ on __improving __my __new__ life._ So, on a rainy summer night, Carlisle left his spartan lodgings and ventured into the countryside, trying to pick up the scent of vampire.

After running for hours and scouring what seemed like most of the English countryside, Carlisle finally smelled what he'd been looking for. There was a vampire nearby, or there had been recently. Carlisle followed the scent for miles, changing his direction when it grew weaker or stronger, until finally, he stopped and looked around. A black haired vampire was sitting on top of a boulder a few hundred yards away, looking down at the moors below with a grim expression on his face. Then the wind shifted, and Carlisle saw the other vampire turn, take one look at him, and then stand up and prepare to run in just a fraction of a second.

"Wait!" Carlisle called. "Please, I just want to talk!"

The other vampire turned and looked at him as if he had two heads. "What?" the vampire said incredulously.

"I'm sorry if I startled you," Carlisle said quietly, approaching the other vampire slowly—he was skittish, and would clearly flee at the slightest provocation. "I just…I followed your scent here. I wanted someone to—to talk to. I've only been a vampire for a few years now, and actually, you're only the second one I've ever spoken to."

The vampire was still staring at him, but he looked more thoughtful than startled now. Actually, 'thoughtful' wasn't quite the right word for it. He looked almost put out at being spoken to. He looked slightly intrigued as well though.

_Probably because of my eyes_, Carlisle thought. _Liza was right, other vampires don't know what to make of their color._

"I've been living in Oxford for the past few years, and I'm the only one there," Carlisle went on. "I know someone in London, but…well, she's been bothering me to look for others, if I really want to have friends."

"Friends?" the vampire echoed doubtfully. "Our kind rarely have friends."

Carlisle shrugged. "You're probably right—I suspect my own preoccupation with the idea stems from the fact that when I was human, I never spent any time by myself. I mean, I didn't have many people I'd call friends, but I was never alone. Now, I nearly always am."

The vampire looked genuinely thoughtful now. "I prefer things that way. People can betray you. Solitude cannot."

"I suppose," Carlisle said, trying not to sound too doubtful himself. "I have missed talking to people though. But, I'm sorry, I haven't introduced myself yet. I'm Carlisle Cullen."

"…Alistair," the other said, almost reluctantly.

"Pleased to meet you," Carlisle said, smiling in spite of the other's dour expression. Alistair could have been even more grim than he was and Carlisle still would have been sincerely happy to make his acquaintance. "Do you live near here?"

"…for now," Alistair said with a shrug. "I like the moors."

Carlisle nodded. "They do have a stark sort of beauty about them." Rather than enjoying the charms of the scenery though, Carlisle guessed that the real reason Alistair liked it here was the solitude that such a home afforded him.

"Do you get to London often?"

"No," Alistair said grimly. "Sometimes I hunt there, but as a rule I avoid the city."

"I only ask because my friend Liza lives there," Carlisle explained with a sheepish shrug. "She's the reason I'm at Oxford now—she offered to pay my way if I would work for her for a year when I'd finished."

This comment seemed to provoke a flicker of interest in Alistair. "You attend university? Why?"

Carlisle shrugged again. "I never had much schooling while I was human. My father was an Anglican pastor, and he forbade me to study anything but the Bible. Now that I have the time to study whatever I wish, I enjoy attending lectures and spending every moment I can in libraries."

Alistair nodded soberly. "This life would be unbearable without books."

"That's true. Have you read anything about the Test Act lately?" Carlisle asked curiously. This was a favorite topic of conversation at Oxford at present. The Test Act of 1673 essentially required that every person who held a public office must subscribe to the Established Church, as opposed to any other faith. At Oxford, the other students could debate the merits of the Act for hours. Carlisle often got the impression that none of them had much, if any, personal stake in the matter—they weren't Catholics or Nonconformists, and they probably weren't related to any. But as a topic of intellectual debate, nothing made better fodder for conversation than an issue concerning religion, personal freedom, and possible papist conspiracies.

Alistair made a face. "I abhor current events. This new Act is just the latest example of human foolishness."

Carlisle blinked. That was going to be the extent of their debate then, since he felt much the same, at least when it came to the ridiculous nature of the Act. In life, he'd never dared to argue with his father about anything, especially matters of faith, but now, he was of the opinion that people should be allowed to practice whatever religion they wished, just so long as doing so involved no burning at the stake of supposed witches.

"So do I," Carlisle said with a smile. After all, though it might be nice to have an intellectual debate, it was perhaps even nicer to have a friend he agreed with when it came to matters like this.

"It's nearly sunrise," Alistair pointed out suddenly, and as Carlisle glanced to the east, he resisted the urge to curse. Sure enough, darkness was giving way to the gray tint of early dawn.

"I should go then, in case it turns out to be a clear day," Carlisle said, glancing up at the cloudless sky. "Would it be all right if I sought you out again to talk like this, Alistair?"

Alistair agreed, or at least Carlisle thought he saw the other vampire nod ever so slightly, which seemed like as much of a response as he could expect from the taciturn creature. As Carlisle turned to run back to Oxford, he wondered what had happened to Alistair to make him so wary of others, or if that had been his nature even when he'd been human. Regardless of the provenance of Alistair's personality though, a friend was a friend, though perhaps he was stretching the definition of the word "friend" a bit here. Still, at least the next time he wrote to Liza, Carlisle would have something to tell her about other than the weather, his studies, or the state of young men's fashions.


	3. 1681

Hi everyone, and Merry Christmas Eve! Today's chapter takes place about fifteen years into Carlisle's life as a vampire. While I think he'd be more comfortable with himself by then, not having another vampire who shared his diet would, I think, have made him eager to travel in hopes of finding others like himself. So, after this chapter, Carlisle's going to be leaving Great Britain and heading to Europe for a while. :) Thanks once again for your reviews, and I'll see you again next week (or the week after, we'll see—I may be starting a new job soon! :))

Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer is the author of "Twilight" (Happy Birthday to her, by the way :)), and Nahum Tate is the author of "The History of King Lear," a play first performed in 1681 at the Duke's Theater in London.

_1681: The History of King Lear_

One drizzly evening, Liza announced that it had been ages since they'd last seen a play, so Carlisle went outside, hired a sedan chair, and then he walked behind Liza as four men carried her through the streets of London to the Duke's Theater. They sat together (which earned them more than a few scandalized looks from humans) and watched the production of "The History of King Lear," a play by a writer named Nahum Tate. Though those around him seemed to enjoy the show, Carlisle himself was distracted. He was going to leave England soon, and though he was looking forward to traveling the continent, he was worried too. After all these years of traveling in Britain, Scotland, and Ireland too, it seemed strange that he still hadn't found anyone like him. Liza of course was a dear friend, and he'd enjoyed acting in her little farce, but no matter how much they agreed on other matters, their different diets would always stand between them, a gap that no friendship could quite bridge.

"Finally," Liza sighed when the curtain fell at the end of the performance. "What drivel."

"Was it?" Carlisle said absently. "I didn't notice."

"That's because you did the sensible thing and stopped paying attention halfway through the first act," Liza said, standing and looking toward the exit. "Go hire me a chair and…oh. Invite those two to visit us tonight, will you?"

Carlisle blinked, startled that he'd failed to notice the presence of two other vampires in the theater. One was a woman, tall and beautiful with flaming red hair that stood out like flames in the midst of the comparatively drab humans that surrounded her, and the other was a man, his expression rather hungry and watchful. Carlisle was still unaccustomed to speaking to strange vampires, but he did as Liza had asked and slipped through the crowd to meet the pair by the door.

"Excuse me," Carlisle said politely, nodding at the two vampires. They were currently eyeing the humans exiting the theater with the kind of thoughtful intensity that Carlisle recognized from watching Liza before she chose someone to hunt. "I'm sorry, but do the two of you have any plans for this evening? I've been asked to give you an invitation."

"Are you…are you dressed as some sort of butler?" the woman asked curiously, her eyes widening, and Carlisle noticed a faint Irish accent to her melodious voice.

Carlisle chuckled. "Yes. It's a bit of a long story. My friend Liza asked me to ask you over to her home tonight when she saw you after the play. She's…well, that's her, in the sedan chair over there."

"The one dressed like a fine lady?" the woman said, her face splitting into a grin.

"That's Liza," Carlisle said, shaking his head. "She's had quite a lot of fun recently, pretending to be a rich human, and I've been helping by playing the part of her butler."

"Well, this sounds like an entertaining story," the woman said, smiling at her companion, who shrugged as if indifferent, but he too seemed intrigued. "All right, we'll come pay your mistress a visit."

"Thank you," Carlisle said with a chuckle. "My name's Carlisle Cullen, by the way."

"I'm Siobhan, and this is Liam," the woman said, taking the man's arm as he nodded at Carlisle. Both of them seemed a bit puzzled by something now, and Carlisle tried not to sigh.

"I take it you've noticed my eyes," Carlisle said. "That's a part of the story I'll leave for Liza to tell, since it amuses her so."

Siobhan and Liam glanced at each other, their expressions slightly uncertain, but then Siobhan nodded, and she and her mate fell into step beside Carlisle. Carlisle didn't bother to point out the fact that they outnumbered him, and that there would be ample opportunity to escape if he were really trying to lead them into some sort of trap. After all, they wouldn't be following him if they hadn't already come to the same conclusions themselves.

Life as a vampire was, Carlisle was often dismayed to note, one of constant watchfulness, if not downright paranoia. Though he now had an unlimited span of time stretching out before him, he sometimes wondered how many of those future hours, days, and eventually years, would be taken up with worries about having to hide what he was from humans, and having to tread cautiously in encounters with other immortals. After all, though they seemed pleasant enough after a few moments' conversation, Siobhan and Liam could easily kill him if they so desired...

"So, how did your friend come to pretend to be a rich human?" Siobhan asked after they'd run through several dark streets—since they only slowed down when there was a risk of humans spotting them, they'd quickly passed Liza's sedan chair.

"She'll tell you in more detail herself, but Liza invested in a coffee house a few decades ago, and that led her to get involved in a joint-stock company. The company's done well the past few years, so Liza sold her shares and made a tidy sum. Honestly, she's probably been in London too long—she's worried that she's started to draw attention, so she's planning to go to the continent for a while. Before that though, she wanted to stop hiding for humans and try passing for human for a change. Her wealth seems to explain her eccentricity to most people, and she's been having a lot of fun spending money and ordering people about the past few months."

"And how did you come to be her butler?" Liam said, smiling very slightly.

Carlisle chuckled. "She paid my way when I attended Oxford a few years ago, and since I didn't have the money to pay her back, I promised to work for her when I was finished to repay the debt. She insisted after I finished that the money was a gift, not a loan, but I insisted. Besides, it's been good practice for me. I've only been a vampire for a few years, and I'm happy to have any chance to be near humans so I can perfect my self control."

Liam frowned. "It seems like you might just as well have accepted her gift in the spirit it was given in."

Carlisle shrugged. "True, but Liza's alone. I know she only looks like an old woman, but I worried about her being on her own. I thought I could help to make sure she wasn't attacked by one of the covens lurking in London, or caught at her little game by humans, and so far, I have. Besides, I felt…guilty, profiting from the deaths of the humans she's killed," Carlisle said quietly. "That's where she got the money for her investments. She doesn't often rob people with money—usually she sneaks into prisons or bedlam, looking for people who are already dying, but if she finds someone who's stolen something, she's kept it. I admire her ingenuity, and she does have a certain sense of justice, but…"

Carlisle trailed off. He wasn't sure how to explain his sense of morality, which allowed for no killing of any human, to these red-eyed strangers.

Liam smile's broadened and Siobhan chuckled. "Liza's just won Liam's approval, I think. We try to hunt that way too—picking and choosing people, I mean."

"I try not to eat anyone who doesn't deserve it," Liam said, suddenly frowning at Carlisle. "How can you be in a coven with someone if you can't even agree on hunting tactics?"

"Liza and I are friends, not a coven," Carlisle explained. "She was the first vampire I ever met after I was changed, and she's always been kind to me." Stopping suddenly, he smiled and nodded at the large house in front of them. "We're here. This is Liza's."

The town house was an impressive one, the sort of place that Carlisle couldn't have imagined ever visiting, let alone residing in, when he'd been human. Of course, lately it had felt more as if he were visiting Liza than actually living in her house. In preparation for crossing the English Channel, Carlisle had swum to Ireland several times recently (always being careful to make sure that he wasn't spotted by the occupants of any passing ships), and he'd often run up to Scotland when he'd needed a break from the lavish but chilling evidence of his friend's success at hunting humans over the past thirty years or so.

Carlisle unlocked the front door and led Siobhan and Liam inside. No human servants were allowed to reside in the house—they came during the day to do their work, and left when Liza retired to her chambers each night. This arrangement had certainly generated some interesting rumors among the household staff, including the idea that Carlisle was Liza's illegitimate son, made to work as her butler by cruel circumstance (this story was popular among the chambermaids), but since no one had guessed what Liza and Carlisle really were, it seemed that the former's desire to play human really was a harmless lark. Harmless, provided that news of it never got back to the Volturi—Carlisle was still a little unclear as to what they allowed in terms of human/vampire fraternization, so though Siobhan and Liam's visit was a nice change of pace, it was troubling too. Would Liza be in trouble if they told anyone about her little game?

"She's here," Siobhan said, and Carlisle went outside just as Liza's sedan chair stopped at the front door. The four humans carrying it nodded at Carlisle; in the darkness, it was hard for them to pick out anything inhuman about his features. He helped Liza down from her seat and paid the fare, just as a good butler should, and though Liza maintained the kind of silent dignity she thought befitted a human woman of her station, as soon as they were inside the house, away from the eyes of curious humans, Liza began complaining.

"Honestly, whoever heard of King Lear having a happy ending!" she fumed, yanking off her shawl. "It's King Lear, for heaven's sake! It's not supposed to end happily! Shakespeare must be rolling over in his grave."

"Sadly though, that was hardly the most ridiculous play we've ever seen at the Duke's Theater," Carlisle pointed out, leading the way into the drawing room. "Also, may I present Siobhan and Liam."

"Charmed, I'm sure," Liza said shortly, motioning for the two of them to sit down while Carlisle lit some candles and a fire. Though the curtains were closed, if anyone had seen Carlisle and the others enter the house, the neighbors might wonder why there were no lights in a house which clearly had guests. "What did you think of tonight's performance?"

The four of them sat together for a while and talked about the play, news in London, and, to Carlisle's distaste, recent hunting experiences. Siobhan and Liam were clearly amused by Liza's brashness, as Carlisle himself was, but for all her bluster, she was a pleasant hostess, and she invited them to stay in the house if they were going to be in London long. Of course, it wouldn't be her house for much longer.

"I'm only going to be here a few weeks more," Liza explained. "It's been a fun charade, but it's time I sold the place and returned to a more inconspicuous way of life. Carlisle's been good enough to put his own move to Europe on hold until I've sold the place, but as soon as everything's arranged and a few of my favorite possessions are packed and sent ahead to Paris, I'll be off, and so will he."

"But what gave you the idea to do such a thing in the first place?" Siobhan wondered. "After all, it isn't as if you really need such a grand place, or any place at all. Liam and I haven't had a permanent home for a while, and it's been lovely, not having to worry about humans getting suspicious because we've overstayed our welcome in their neighborhood."

"True, but I've dreamt of doing something silly like this for years now," Liza said fondly. "You see, I was never well off as a human. Scratch that, I spent most of my life on the verge of starvation to be honest. So when I died and got a little bit of money in my pocket, I thought, 'now's your chance, Liza. Before you change your name and disappear into the masses of humanity just waiting to be tasted on the continent, doing something fun. Live the life of wealth and luxury you never had when you were alive.' So I have, and it's been a jolly good time, but Carlisle's right to worry about how conspicuous it is. If I weren't so old and stubborn, I'd probably worry too. But I'm almost through here."

"Even I have to admit that it's been fun, being a part of your charade of respectable wealth the past few months," Carlisle said with a smile, and Liza rolled her eyes.

"My conscience here, given his age and gender, has been invaluable to me, even if it can be insufferable, having him always be right."

"You don't think I'm right when it comes to hunting," Carlisle pointed out, his smile fading slightly.

"That's true," Liza said with a sigh. Rather than being irritated by the hints he dropped, Liza seemed completely resigned to his thinly veiled disapproval of her diet, a fact that Carlisle was grateful for. Though he couldn't condone the way she hunted, he didn't want to lose essentially his only friend over this difference of opinion.

"I must say, it's been nice having a chat with you two," Siobhan said sometime later—they would be leaving soon, so they could hunt and leave the city before dawn. She glanced at Liam, who was nodding.

"I'm surprised to say I've enjoyed it too. Other than Siobhan, I don't usually enjoy the company of others of our kind, particularly English ones."

"Neither do I," Liza said immediately. "Regardless of nationality, we can be a rather grim, unnerving bunch."

Carlisle chuckled. "Of course, we're hoping to meet some more pleasant vampires on the continent, though it won't be hard to improve upon the ones who lurk in the sewers here in London."

"That's true," Liza said. "Though I may be putting words in his mouth, Carlisle and I are both moving to the continent primarily because we're hoping to make new acquaintances. Of course, that may prove a bit difficult. In my case, because I'm misanthropic as a rule, but with Carlisle, it's because his diet would make him a topic of gossip among our kind, if we were social enough for gossip."

"I feed on animals instead of humans," Carlisle explained before Siobhan and Liam could ask. As always, that announcement earned him expressions of surprise and incredulous questions.

"Is that really possible?" Siobhan asked. "You know, I've been wondering why you went so silent while the rest of us were talking about hunting earlier."

"I like to see how long I can go without embarrassing him by mentioning it," Liza said with a smile at Siobhan.

Now it was Carlisle's turn to roll his eyes. "She takes great pleasure in teasing me about it."

"But why not feed on humans?" Liam asked. "Why not simply hunt selectively—you can't honestly believe there aren't some people that it's better to rid the world of."

"I've tried telling him that too, but he's quite set in his ways," Liza said, shaking her head, but Carlisle was amused to hear a note of pride in her voice. "He's been a vampire for fifteen years now, yet he's never killed a single human."

"Not even one?" Siobhan said incredulously.

"No, not one," Carlisle said quietly. He tried not to sound proud, but of course, he was.

"That's what's turned his eyes that odd color," Liza said with an indulgent smile. "When he swims to France in a week or so, the vampires over there aren't going to know what to make of him."

Carlisle smiled, and though he knew that they would be parting company soon, perhaps for some time, Carlisle also knew that he would always think of Liza as his friend, regardless of their very different diets. After all, she had helped him so much, and she had given him so much hope in the early months and years of this life—when he'd been human, he never could have imagined that he'd ever meet a vampire like Liza, who was generous and playful, and who, even in death, had never lost her sense of humor. Though she'd declared it trite, in retrospect, Carlisle thought he'd rather liked "The History of King Lear." Yes, the happy ending wasn't what he'd expected from a story about that famous monarch, but of course his life wasn't what he'd expected the life of a vampire to be. Whether she'd intended to or not, Liza had helped to teach him that being a vampire, like being King Lear, didn't have to be a tragedy.


	4. 1694

Hi everyone! Sorry for disappearing for so long, but I'm still searching for a job; however, it now looks like I'm going to be substitute teaching for a while, so at least I'll have that until I get something full-time. (And I have an interview on Tuesday, so maybe that job will become a reality soon; either way, I'll do my best to update more frequently in the future. :)) This week's chapter takes place about ten years after Carlisle sought out the Volturi. Though he's lived with them for a while and has grown accustomed to their ways, he still can't quite bring himself to accept their diet, and he's eager to learn how to help people too; soon, I'll be doing a chapter focusing on Carlisle's early days as a medical student. :) Thanks for your reviews, and I'll see you again soon!

Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer, not I, is the author of "Twilight," so I can only borrow Carlisle…:)

_1694: The Battle of Texel_

The sun had finally set, and Carlisle and Aro were taking a turn through the streets of Volterra. Aro was, as usual, captivated by the grandeur of his city, but Carlisle was too distracted to consider the beauty of architecture or scenery. He was thinking about the terrible things he'd seen in France.

"Really, it's quite an impressive tale," Aro mused. "The sort of naval victory that will be celebrated in song and verse long after its principle characters have left the mortal world."

Carlisle nodded absently. "I just can't stop thinking about the people I saw in Paris. I've seen starving humans before, but never so many, crowded together like that…"

"Didn't the Battle of Texel solve all their problems?" Aro asked, bemused. "Think of it, Carlisle: brave sailors and their daring captain, taking back food needed for France and capturing Dutch ships and prisoners to boot! It's a fine story for those of us who can avoid dwelling on depressing scenes of starving humans."

Carlisle shook his head absently. He was too used to Aro's cavalier attitude toward human life to even get angry. "Of course the victory at Texel is a fine thing for the morale of the people of France, but it isn't going to end the famine that's been plaguing the country in one fell swoop. Ever since I left Paris, I've been thinking about everything I saw there, and I've been wishing I could do something to help."

Aro snorted. "_Help_? Really Carlisle, you're the only person I know who could utter such a ridiculous statement with a straight face. What, may I ask, is the point in helping starving humans?"

"Putting the concept of compassion aside, since I know that argument won't sway you, I'd invite you to think about the future. You enjoy many of the fruits of human labor," Carlisle pointed out. "If I were to save human lives, who knows—I might be saving a future painter, or mathematician, or philosopher. Even if you can't appreciate the intrinsic value of human life, I know that you can see its extrinsic value. If you didn't, then you wouldn't be a patron of the arts and sciences."

Aro smiled. "True enough. The extrinsic value of humans _is_ something I can appreciate, at least as an abstract concept. However, not every starving French urchin is going to grow up to be of use to me—in fact, the majority will be good for little but a meal. In that sense, famine is a great boon to me and the rest of our kind, excepting you and your abnormal appetites. After all, the blood of dying humans may not be as palatable as that of the strong, but it's easy to obtain, and in a crowd of starving peasants, a few of their brethren are rarely missed."

Carlisle sighed quietly—he'd tried not to think of it, but of course members of the Volturi had recently enjoyed great meals in France. Supposedly, vampires everywhere tended to gravitate toward wars and famines, because as Aro had said, the hunting was easy, the game plentiful, and little suspicion would be aroused among the surviving humans when the dust settled on the calamity. Carlisle's recent time in France had been truly eye-opening: contrary to his expectations, however, his time at various universities there, and the knowledge he'd gained from reading and study couldn't hold a candle to what he'd learned about himself.

Though he was incapable of starving to death, seeing humans suffering and dying as the famine in France reached its peak—hearing agonized cries in the streets and watching the remains of the dead be disposed of—had pained him terribly. The helplessness he'd felt then, combined with an intense desire to ease the affliction of humans in need, had helped Carlisle to realize something: it wasn't enough for him to simply live without human blood. Rather, if the limitless time stretching out before him was going to mean anything, he couldn't just spare human lives—he wanted to try to improve them too.

Aro, of course, had scoffed at this idea when he'd told him about it, and Carlisle too could see the obvious pitfalls of becoming the world's first vampire surgeon. Caring for sick and injured humans would of course put him in direct contact with human blood, something that he still wasn't exactly comfortable with. However, Carlisle reasoned, he'd been a vampire for nearly three decades now, and he no longer had to fight the urge to attack humans in the street. His throat still burned at times if he hunted irregularly, but wasn't it at least possible? Wouldn't his determination to help, not to hurt, be half the battle when it came to resisting human blood? And with regular exposure, surely he would become desensitized…eventually.

As terrible as witnessing the famine had been, strangely, it had been a relief to know that he could still feel compassion for human suffering. In Volterra, where such sentiments were ridiculed and human life itself seen as being equal to that of livestock, Carlisle had learned to hide his emotions as best he could, and he'd worried that if he suppressed his feelings for too long, eventually, he might cease to feel anything at all. After a few years of study in Volterra, combined with interesting (if rather depressingly nihilistic) conversations with Aro, Carlisle was still determined to observe the diet he'd chosen for himself, but he'd given up on his desire to convert the vampires of the Volturi to his way of thinking. They'd lived for centuries, and in some cases millennia, on the blood of humans, after all; every immortal he'd spoken to over the past decade had quickly made it clear that though his way of life was considered an amusing novelty by Aro, no one had any inclination to share his status as an oddity.

"Really, Carlisle," Aro said, chuckling appreciatively and thereby extricating Carlisle from his troubled thoughts. "You're the only creature I know who would voluntarily spend more time thinking about hungry humans than a glorious naval victory."

"If suffering isn't extraordinary, then neither are glorious victories of any sort," Carlisle said dryly. "You've seen enough of human history pass to know that few things are truly unique. There are nearly always parallels to past persons or events, and I'm surprised that you're even still impressed by the paltry accomplishments of mortals."

"Ah, but as you just said, some humans do impress me," Aro said with a grin. "Humans whose exploits and accomplishments will outlive them, who in essence make themselves immortal, have value that even I can appreciate. The suffering of the nameless masses, however, is a story as old as the earth itself, and it fails to interest me."

Carlisle frowned. Over the past decade, he'd left Volterra periodically to travel and study throughout the continent, in part because he craved knowledge that couldn't be found even in Volterra's vast library, but his desire to travel was also inspired by the frequent urge to escape the Volturi. It pained Carlisle that Aro was, at present, the closest thing he had to a friend. Liza, who was living in some rural corner of France, hadn't answered his letters in years, and though her silence didn't surprise him really (she was, at best, an unreliable correspondent), still, he wondered what sort of society she'd found, if any, among other immortals, and if hers was a happier home than his current dwelling place.

After ten years of life in Volterra, Carlisle recognized that his existence there, though better than a life of solitude or one among the vampires living in London's sewers, was far from what he'd hoped it would be. As he and Aro moved silently through the dark streets, Carlisle realized that he'd stayed there as long as he had because even the poor facsimile of friendship he'd found in the city seemed so much better than the prospect of having practically no friends at all. Since encountering the famine in France however, Carlisle realized that regardless of his wish for companionship, soon, he would have to brave the rigors of loneliness and go off on his own, perhaps permanently. In Volterra, he could do nothing but stand by as other immortals ended human lives, but outside the city…perhaps he could learn to save human lives. Instead of simply repressing his monstrous nature, maybe there was a way to rise above it.


	5. 1709

Hello, everyone! This week's chapter concerns human dissection and the scent for which this chapter is named (Eau de Cologne was invented in 1709, as you may have guessed :)). Also, just so you know, since I update my other two regular stories every week, I'm going to try to update "Stregoni Benefici: Unico" every other week. Thanks as always for your reviews, and I'll see you again soon! :)

Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer is the author of "Twilight," and I can't wait to see "Breaking Dawn" again! (Hmm, but it's hard to decide where I should get my copy—there are so many pretty ones at different stores…:))

_1709: Eau de Cologne_

Carlisle slipped into the drafty lecture hall a few minutes before the dissection was scheduled to begin. Already, men were gazing eagerly down toward the center of the room—most were fairly young, but others were older, some of them already experienced surgeons or artists simply looking to brush up on their understanding of human anatomy. Carlisle was grateful for his own perfect memory, but sometimes he envied the ubiquitous human talent for forgetting things. For example, whenever Carlisle attended a dissection, he always wanted more than anything to forget what he was, to be able to ignore the gnawing thirst that had sent him fleeing anatomy lessons like this on more than one occasion.

Of course, it was impossible to ever completely forget his thirst, but Carlisle was determined to learn to ignore it. He wanted, more than anything, to learn the skills he would need to help people as a surgeon, and he wasn't about to let thirst keep him from that. Never mind Aro's jokes at his expense; if anything, the amusement of members of the Volturi at the seemingly insurmountable task he'd set for himself made Carlisle all the more determined to succeed, to prove that it was possible to help humans in spite of what he was. That was why he was here, about to endure another dissection.

This particular university, one of the best in Berlin, held dissections whenever bodies could be obtained for that purpose, and such events were always popular, though depending on their frequency, rumors would periodically circulate that the corpses used for dissection were sometimes obtained through questionable means. Carlisle didn't like to think about it, but he was certain that vampires sometimes made a little money that way: if they were already sated, they might easily kill a human, drain only a little blood, and then sell the cadaver to an eager anatomist, claiming that the human in question was some poor pauper with no money for a proper burial anyway. And given the popularity of dissections in Italy, Carlisle was almost certain that some of the Volturi entertained themselves with such activities, thus their hilarity at his habit of frequenting anatomy lessons over the past few years.

_It's rather ironic that I'm beginning my education in preserving human life through corpses, some of them probably supplied by vampires_, Carlisle thought grimly, staring down at the small platform in the center of the room as a body was carried in and set upon a table. Instantly, the chatter in the room died down, and the anatomist began to speak. Carlisle ignored the man's words and began to take slow, even breathes; not breathing, he'd decided, was never going to get him anywhere, because he needed to learn to manage his thirst, and anyway, surgeons needed to at least _appear_ to breathe. Determined to remain calm, Carlisle tried to watch the dissection as though he were simply examining an interesting illustration in a book. If he could only learn to be detached about the practice of cutting into human flesh, of spilling blood…but of course, the real thing was very different from drawings.

Carlisle stared down at the body below as the anatomist began to cut into it. Clearly, the man had been dead for at least a day, and his blood wasn't appetizing by any stretch of the imagination, but the very sight of it made Carlisle's throat burn. The stale smell was unnervingly appealing too, and even if he covered his ears, Carlisle would still be able to hear the hearts of his fellow spectators beating all around him, living blood rushing through their veins, and of course it would taste so—

With a slight shake of his head, Carlisle focused on the corpse and congratulated himself on this small victory. His throat felt like it was on fire, and it was agonizing to remain seated and resist the urge to set upon the man sitting next to him…but it was _only_ agonizing, not unbearable. It was difficult to resist, but Carlisle knew that he could—he didn't have to flee the room as he often had in the past, and though the burning in his throat was unpleasant, Carlisle didn't believe that it would overwhelm him. He could endure it, just barely, but that was enough for the time being. If the pain was manageable today, then a few years from now, it might be negligible, and then someday, it would be gone entirely. At least, that was Carlisle's theory, and at long last, years of testing were beginning to show the merit of his hypothesis.

If he could really remain seated until the lesson was over, this would be the fifteenth dissection that Carlisle had managed to sit through. It had taken him more than ten years, but human blood no longer sent him running for an exit, his throat burning with thirst and his mind reeling from the knowledge of how easy it would be to slip, how he might kill every occupant of a spacious lecture hall in minutes. No, if he hunted enough beforehand, then even in a room crowded with humans, the sight and scent of decaying human blood was slowly but surely beginning to lose the power to tempt him. Of course, the blood of a live human would be a different story, but Carlisle understood now that this was going to be a gradual process. Before he could bear the scent of the blood of the living, he needed to become completely acclimated to the blood of the dead.

As Carlisle watched the anatomist's careful incisions, he was pleased to find that he could actually think of something other than blood. He already knew the locations of the organs that the man was pointing out, but he concentrated on this particular man's innards, and he wondered if their color or size offered any indication of how he'd died. Strangely, beneath the tantalizing smell, Carlisle found that he could detect the presence of Eau de Cologne, that new fragrance that fashionable young men seemed to favor. This man wasn't very old, and though he'd begun to decompose, he didn't appear to have been unhealthy in life. Why then was he here?

Carlisle found himself wondering how the man had died—a thought he'd rarely had the leisure to consider at previous dissections, when all his attention had been focused on not killing anyone. Now, a small corner of Carlisle's mind was able to speculate on how the young man had come to be laid out on the dissection table. Had he been a criminal, or had some unfortunate accident struck him down? What sort of life had he led, and did it even matter? In death at least, he was serving mankind by furthering the totality of human (and immortal) knowledge. This, Carlisle was amused to note, was the sort of human contribution to the world at large that both he and Aro could appreciate: in death, humans might make themselves immortal by unintentionally furthering the progress of science, and Carlisle hoped that someday, the techniques he'd observed at this dissection might enable him to extend the life of a similar young man. But of course, that day was still far away.

Soon after Carlisle noticed the scent of Eau de Cologne, the dissection ended, and the spectators all stood up and began to file toward the exit.

"Feeling all right, young man?" the man who'd been sitting beside him inquired in German.

"Ah, yes, thank you," Carlisle said, nodding at the gray-haired man—an artist perhaps, or maybe a surgeon?

"You look very pale," the man said sympathetically. "Your first dissection?"

"No, but…well, I'm afraid it's proving difficult for me to get used to it," Carlisle said, hoping his expression was embarrassed now. Too much time with the Volturi had led him to hide his emotions to the point that it sometimes felt as if he had to relearn proper facial expressions.

"You sat through the whole thing at least," the man said encouragingly. "The important thing is not to give up, and someday, you'll find it's become as natural a thing as getting dressed in the morning."

Carlisle smiled at the thought of a future like that. "Yes, I certainly hope so."


	6. 1712

Hi everyone! Sorry for taking so long to update, but I'm going to be moving to Illinois next Thursday, so I need to get all my proverbial ducks in a row before I leave. This week's chapter deals with how Carlisle came to have the painting of himself, Aro, Caius, and Marcus, and my take on how the artist, Francesco Solimena, would have relished the chance to paint immortals, even though their unnatural beauty and stillness would have been a bit unnerving for a human to observe over the time it would take to paint a portrait. Thanks once again for your reviews, and I'll see you again soon with another new chapter! :)

Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer is the author of "Twilight," and as such, I am only borrowing Carlisle in all his distracting awesomeness. :)

_1712: Solimena's Latest Work_

"I swear, the man's positively enamored with our striking good looks," Aro said quietly, speaking too softly for the human artist to hear as he carefully inspected the drawing before him, which would be used to create the painting that Aro had commissioned. Aro, Caius, Marcus, and Carlisle were posed per Francesco Solimena's instructions, and now the eminent painter—though a famous, wealthy man in his own right, and generally one of rather stern countenance when in the company of other humans—was working as studiously and cautiously as a novice portrait painter as he began creating his latest likeness of vampires. Though he seldom spoke, the man did seem rather awed.

"As any artist would be, I suppose," Carlisle said thoughtfully. "Even putting aside the strange perfection of our features, we're far better than humans at staying still."

"Of course, some of us are better at stillness and silence than others," Caius muttered, and though Aro chuckled softly, Carlisle didn't respond or offer further comment. Sometimes he thought that Marcus, who so seldom spoke and even then said so little, might be the wisest immortal in all of Volterra. If nothing else, his silence spared him from having to converse with Caius.

"In spite of our previous business dealings," Aro went on as though neither Carlisle nor Caius had spoken, "I'm still a bit surprised that he responded to our invitation so promptly. I can only conclude that he must be particularly fond of painting us."

Caius shrugged. "Though I hesitate to agree with our inestimable future surgeon, why wouldn't any mortal jump at the chance to render our likenesses? We're far better to look at than their usual unwashed human subjects."

"Mmm, but he must be unnerved by us," Aro said, his voice still an inaudible whisper to the artist as he studied Solimena thoughtfully. "Unless, of course, he's so completely absorbed in his craft that he's able to ignore any twinges of unease we might engender. Of course, his possible reaction to the knowledge that he's painting a quartet of vampires is nothing to the horror he'd feel if he knew that this painting was destined to travel to _America_."

Carlisle sighed. "It's so amusing, Aro, how you always pronounce the name of the continent as if it were an epithet."

"Well, I'm just glad you appreciate my sense of humor, dear Carlisle," Aro said with a slight smile. "You'll have nothing to equal it in the New World, mark my words, so you'd best savor my little bon mots while you can."

"A _surgeon_ in _America_," Caius said with a derisive snort of laughter. "Really, are you a masochist, Carlisle, or have you finally been driven insane by your unconventional diet?"

"Neither, I hope," Carlisle said evenly. "Frankly, I'm looking forward to the challenge."

"Don't tease him for his medical aspirations, Caius," Aro said, his tone amused. "Tease him for wanting to leave Europe for a backwater colony on the other side of the Atlantic. You know, I've heard that there are more bears living in and around Philadelphia than there are humans."

"Well, considering my diet, that should work to my advantage then," Carlisle said with a smile, ignoring Aro's quiet laughter and Caius's condescending chuckle. He really was looking forward to the new hunting opportunities that America would afford him, though he was rather dreading the passage across the Atlantic by ship; for weeks, he'd have nothing to eat but rats, which were easily his least favorite game. Still, the furry nuisances would keep him from turning to his fellow passengers for sustenance, and as long as the rats quenched his thirst, he couldn't really complain about their flavor. Carlisle knew that the food that sustained humans on long sea voyages was, in some cases, even more distasteful than the blood of rats.

"Really though, you'd doubtless do better to go to the Orient and ply your trade," Aro said with a disapproving frown. "At least there you'd find some civilization. Why, in many ways, the peoples of the Orient are ahead of us—there are many examples of their architecture that put even the grandest of Continental structures to shame."

"Since I'm hoping to work, and not just sightsee, America should be fine, thank you, Aro," Carlisle said calmly. "Anyway, wouldn't I draw undue attention to myself in such a place? At least in such a large network of British colonies as those in America, I'll have a chance of blending in."

"As I understand it, there are some large British colonies in the Orient," Marcus said, startling Carlisle as he always did on those rare occasions when he deigned to speak.

"Yes, exactly!" Aro said eagerly. "You're going to stand out wherever you go, especially among non-Europeans, so why not at least go somewhere picturesque? America, or so I've heard, has some fine examples of natural beauty, I'll grant you that, but if you want to see the best of human and immortal ingenuity, don't cross the Atlantic. The great societies that once thrived in the Americas have fallen into ruin, but in Asia and in Europe, you can find hundreds and sometimes thousands of years of uninterrupted progress."

Caius sighed. "Really Aro, if he's determined to exile himself to the other side of the planet, let him. It will hardly be a loss."

Carlisle frowned thoughtfully, ignoring Caius's jibe. "Well, to be honest, I do plan to travel a bit before leaving Europe. But I'm not leaving just because I want to see the world. Scoff all you like, I really do want to learn to help humans however I can. That, I suppose, is a calling I can pursue anywhere."

Though these little debates with Aro and Caius were always lively, and arguably a useful test of his convictions, they were yet another reason that Carlisle was looking forward to leaving Volterra. He'd come to the vampire city longing for education and companionship, and he'd found that, but he'd also been treated to excessive sneers and jokes at his expense, and after a while, the companionship of immortals who delighted in taunting him had come to seem worse than no companionship at all. It was only thanks to Aro's rather inexplicable fascination with his oddness that Carlisle was tolerated in Volterra at all, let alone welcome. Many of the vampires who hovered at the edges of the Volturi's society had been positively thrilled when Aro had made it known that Carlisle would be leaving them soon; such hangers-on saw his departure as a chance to become Aro's new favored one. However, Carlisle suspected that Aro's fondness for him stemmed, in large part, from the fact that though he'd initially been impressed by the Volturi, he no longer craved their acceptance or patronage with the desperation that many vampires seemed to seek such approval.

"The light is fading, gentlemen, so I believe that we must end for today," Solimena announced suddenly. "My deepest thanks, as always, for your time and your patience. It is always a pleasure to study your likenesses."

"I assure you, my dear fellow, that the pleasure has been ours," Aro said, and though his smile and tone were patronizing in Carlisle's estimation, Solimena seemed deeply flattered. While Marcus and Caius left the room without a word, Aro spoke warmly of the artist's past works—though Aro might find the man himself ridiculous, he really was impressed with Solimena's talent. Solimena didn't know it, but Aro's approval could be a matter of life and death; of course, now that Solimena was famous and wealthy, it was unlikely that any vampire would be so foolish as to take his life—a grisly death for the famous painter at the hands of a mysterious assailant would cause too much of a stir.

While Solimena spoke to Aro, Carlisle examined the drawing that Solimena had been working on. He often prepared for paintings by doing impressive sketches with pens and ink, watercolors, and even chalk, and though Carlisle knew from experience that he had little talent for the visual arts, it seemed to him that these drawings were beautiful enough to belong in galleries themselves. As always, Aro, Caius, and Marcus looked smug, cold, and apathetic respectively, while Carlisle saw that his likeness seemed imbued with a strange mixture of melancholy and determination. Though it was only a sketch, his face seemed to express a strong desire to quit his current surroundings, even if doing so meant enduring certain loneliness.

"Do you like the scene so far, sir?" Solimena asked humbly.

Carlisle nodded. "Yes. Very much so." Looking at the drawing, he tried to imagine what the painting would look like when it was finished, and he wondered at the distance he and it would soon be traveling together.


	7. 1727

Hi everyone! Sorry for taking so long to update, but in the past month, I've moved to a new state and started a new job, so I've been a bit swamped. However, "Stregoni Benefici, Unico" is finally back, and I'm hoping to update every other week again, but we'll see how that goes. (It probably won't be quite that often, since these chapters always seem to run long, but I'll do my best! :))

This week's chapter takes place a few years after Carlisle's arrival in America, and it deals with his struggles to balance his work as a surgeon with the need for secrecy, and how he might be happy, though a little lonely, as a solitary vampire in a growing city where covens are wary of outsiders as they fight to establish their territories. (It also contains a letter from Liza, whose story isn't quite over yet…) Thanks for your reviews, and for your patience waiting for updates, and I'll see you again soon! :)

Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer is the author of "Twilight," and only a few more months until "Breaking Dawn" Part 2! Sigh, it seems so long to wait…(And here's hoping that Carlisle's hair looks a little better in Part 2 than it did for most of Part 1…:P)

_1727: Life in the New World and the Death of Isaac Newton_

It was strange to read about the demise of the famed Isaac Newton as an event that had happened some time ago. Carlisle was sitting in his apartment, grateful that he'd received a packet of newspapers from Siobhan the previous day, because on this sunny afternoon, he couldn't venture outside, and when he couldn't go to work, Carlisle invariably grew restless without ample reading material. Siobhan knew he liked newspapers, and when she and Liam traveled, she'd collect them from all over Europe. Once or twice a year, a large packet of the things would arrive, and though the news they contained was always weeks or months old, it still made for fascinating reading.

Carlisle had read and enjoyed several of Newton's books, and he was sorry to hear of the man's death, but unsurprised. Newton hadn't been a young man, and lately, it had occurred to Carlisle that had he remained human, he himself would now be either dead or very ancient. That he'd be dead seemed the more likely possibility, but rather than feeling morbid at the thought of it, Carlisle now found that he was able to take pleasure in his immortality. If nothing else, it had afforded him a great deal more time to read than he would have had otherwise.

Though the mail was by no means reliable, Carlisle still looked forward to letters or packages from Europe every day, knowing full well that a note from Liza, Aro, Siobhan, or one of his other infrequent correspondents only arrived every few months. Still, it was pleasant to have something to look forward to, and the arrival of any piece of mail was a cause for celebration. His only friends were so far away that books and letters had taken the place of regular conversations, and though the society of the printed word was imperfect, it was far better than nothing. Carlisle knew that his was not a bad life, but the inevitably of his solitude wearied him sometimes.

Carlisle had no illusions of how humans saw him in Philadelphia. People appreciated his skills as a surgeon, and they were grateful to him for the way he cared for the sick and injured, but no matter how much good he did, he was never quite trusted. He might exchange greetings with neighbors and engage in small talk in the market when he went to buy books or clothing (or food, purchased for appearances only, and always deposited on the steps of some impoverished family before he went home), but Carlisle never considered the humans around him friends.

Simply put, he made people nervous, and though people might try to overcome that emotion out of gratitude or a feeling of Christian charity, there was nothing for it. Carlisle had yet to encounter any amiable immortals in the New World, and until he did, he was resigned to living a solitary life. It seemed unkind to impose upon the uneasy hospitality of human colonists—besides, not many years had passed since the last time they'd burned a suspected witch on this side of the Atlantic. Carlisle had no desire to make anyone so suspicious of his strangeness that torches and angry mobs got involved.

Of course, there were other vampires in Philadelphia—it was a growing city, and covens were quietly but fiercely challenging one another for territory. Every night, while humans slept, bloody battles raged in the streets, and miniature empires rose and fell as covens were formed and dissolved amidst the conflict. Carlisle's diet however, and the fact that he had no coven, made him a subject of disdain and disinterest on the part of the warlike covens that lurked around him.

They didn't bother him—he'd explained clearly and calmly on countless occasions that he didn't feed on humans, and in every case, that admission was enough to end the conversation. Perhaps when things settled down in terms of territorial disputes, he might have friends here, but until then, the vampires in Philadelphia had bigger concerns than a vampire with odd eating habits. Once it was known that Carlisle had no intention of challenging anyone for their share of the city, he was either ignored or else treated as a sort of harmless lunatic whenever a vampire deigned to even acknowledge his existence.

Carlisle, who wanted nothing of their squabbles over human victims, was glad to be left in peace, but disappointed that he had yet to find any other immortals interested in his way of life. But there must be some. Somewhere. Though he'd had no luck yet, the New World was still a place of promise to Carlisle, even if he _was_ friendless there.

Thinking of his faraway friends, as he often did on sunny days like this when he was trapped inside, Carlisle remembered his last meeting with Liza (as he still thought of her, regardless of her love of aliases). It had been years ago, just a few days prior to boarding the ship that had brought him to America. She'd been well then, and presumably, she would go on leading the inconspicuous existence she'd pursued ever since being changed. Though Carlisle considered her habit of disappearing for years on end to be more than a little overcautious, Liza was adamant about avoiding unwanted attention from humans and vampires alike. She was enjoying her immortality, and she wasn't about to let it be cut short by anyone.

Smiling fondly at the small wooden box before him, Carlisle took out a packet of letters and examined them carefully, unfolding the pages slowly so as not to tear the paper. Carlisle's favorite letter from Liza was different from the others she'd sent him (which mostly consisted of terse descriptions of her daily life), though it was troubling too, and like all the others, very short. Though he remembered it perfectly, he loved to have it before his eyes and imagine her voice as he reread it. After all, it was concrete proof that he had at least one friend, never mind how flighty she could be:

_Dear Carlisle,_

_ As you'll no doubt be unsurprised to learn, England is still much the same as she was when you left her. We've had a lot of sunny days lately, so I've been catching up on my reading. You know, when I was a girl, I couldn't read at all, and I never imagined even owning one book, let alone having a houseful of them. Of course, every time one of my houses starts to fill up with books and clothes and the other effluvia of life, I realize that it's probably time to move on again. _

_I may return to France later this year, but since you told me of Aro's recommending the Far East to you several years ago, I must confess that the idea of such an adventure intrigues me. After all, being an old woman in an appearance only, there's no reason for me to sit around while young people like you travel the world! Physically, I'm far better equipped to undertake such a long journey than most humans are, and if nothing else, I should be traveling for a more noble cause than the usual good old British aim of getting rich and killing heathens. Then again, for safety's sake, I would probably do well to wait until Europeans are more common in the Orient before traveling there. Doing so now would be conspicuous, and you know that of all things, what I despise most is __being conspicuous._

_ You probably think I'm a paranoid old fool, creeping around the way I do and trying not to be spotted by our kind, but believe me when I say that not all immortals are as discreet as you are. If the wrong person were to see me and tell your friends the Volturi about me…well, I don't like to think what would happen. I'm not sure if you even still consider them your friends, after everything you must have seen in Italy, but in the future, you should keep in mind that our kind are not terribly forgiving of difference. Really, I think it's just better for me to stay out of sight for a while. And before you can even entertain the idea, no, I am not becoming like your strange friend Alistair. He avoids people out of misanthropy. I avoid people out of prudence._

_ It is a curious thing to have eternity to contemplate the fact that my life, while extended indefinitely, could still be ended in a moment. Our idea of immortality naturally ignores the fact that others of our kind, out of malice, or suspicion, or purely for sport, can destroy us quite easily. So as I've said many times in the past, be careful in the New World! You may not have enemies there, but if your letters are any indication, you don't have any friends either. _

_Those of us who live without the protection of a coven need to be especially cautious when it comes to strangers…though knowing you, you're so busy trying to preach the virtues of your bizarre diet that it never even occurs to you that someday, someone might be so bothered by your attempts to proselytize that they'll snap your head off! But I digress. Just watch out for your fellow city vampires; country vampires like me tend to avoid the society of such territorial creatures (you being the exception to that rule, though perhaps even you have a favorite patch of woodland where you enjoy stalking tasteless quadrupeds)._

_All that aside, I hope that all is well with you, and that your new home continues to be at least in part what you expected it to be. And all teasing aside, I really do hope that you can find friends there. You're the only one of our kind I know who actually deserves the luxury of friendship._

_ Your cranky old friend,_

_ Liza_

Carlisle smiled, picturing Liza writing such a letter. The few human men he was acquainted with seemed to complain about opinionated women on the rare occasions when they spoke of women at all, but Carlisle couldn't understand why. If a woman knew better than he did, then he wanted to benefit from her knowledge—and since fully half the human population consisted of females, it seemed very odd to ignore that half out of foolish pride or misogyny or whatever had been the genesis of the illogical idea that women, being different from men, must therefore be inferior.

Shaking his head, Carlisle smiled at himself. Every year, he noticed things like this—evidence that he was becoming less of the human man he'd been and more…something else. Solitude had given him leisure to examine his old prejudices, and now, so many of them seemed so irrational, so wholly unscientific, that he was quick to dismiss ideas he'd once taken for granted. Regardless of whether they were men or women, Carlisle hoped to someday make more friends like Liza. But as he glanced at the newspaper announcing the news of Isaac Newton's death, Carlisle had to wonder how many more years would pass, how many more wars would be fought, and how many more intellectual luminaries might live and die before he found other vampires who already shared or who were willing to embrace his philosophy.


	8. 1735

Hi again! Yikes, that was a rather long delay between chapters, wasn't it? Sorry about that—somehow, April just sort of got away from me, and then my computer crashed, so that was an unpleasant interlude. However, I'm hoping to do better in the future—for now though, maybe look for one chapter for sure every month, and if I manage more than that, it'll just be icing on the cake. Anyway, this chapter takes place on the night of the first performance of "Flora," which was the first opera performed in North America. (I like the idea that Carlisle heard about it and made sure to attend.) Thanks once again for your great reviews (and your considerable patience, which is much appreciated), and I'll see you again soon! :)

_1735: Flora—an Opera_

Carlisle was walking through the woods just outside of Charleston, enjoying the cool night air while he waited for the opera to begin, when he caught the scent of another vampire. It was faint, and though Carlisle's first instinct was to ignore it (other vampires usually left him alone if he extended them the same courtesy), he followed the scent deeper into the forest, curious in spite of himself. Soon he realized that it was getting stronger, as the wind carried it toward him.

As Carlisle moved forward, he listened, wondering if the vampire had caught his scent as well and was approaching to meet him, or if the other was hunting instead. Carlisle hoped that the latter wasn't the case. It would be a nasty business, getting between another vampire and its prey, but he couldn't very well stand by and let—

Suddenly, Carlisle caught another scent on the breeze, and another, and then he heard the sound of three pairs of feet running toward him, one ahead of the others. There was still time for him to escape, but Carlisle stood his ground, wondering what was happening. Just then, a vampire, her eyes red and the dress she wore torn and stained with blood, shot past Carlisle without a word. Her teeth were bared, and Carlisle immediately realized two things: first, the girl was a newborn, and second, she was headed straight for the city.

"Hello?" a voice cried out suddenly. "John, look, he's one of us!" The voice belonged to a female vampire, her dark hair kept back in a long, thick braid, and she too ran past Carlisle, apparently trying to stop the newborn.

"Quick, help us catch her!" the second vampire shouted, pausing for an instant as he ran toward Carlisle and caught a glimpse of his golden eyes. The other man, who was at least a head taller than Carlisle, had red eyes like his companions, and he was older looking too, a man who'd been past the prime of life when he'd been turned. Carlisle hesitated for only an instant, wondering if the two vampires pursuing the newborn simply wanted to restrain her before she could attack someone in a crowded street—a dangerous possibility for all of them—or if they wanted to kill her. But in the end, Carlisle ran after them—the two older vampires had at least appeared concerned (rather than violent), and anyway, he so seldom interacted with others of his kind that it was impossible to turn his back on such an opportunity.

It took only a few seconds for him to catch up to the male vampire, who was large and slow compared to the woman. Carlisle too was fast—like the male, he had long legs, but he was a great deal leaner, and he'd been much younger when he'd been turned—so though it took some effort, he managed to catch up with the woman just as she reached out to grasp the newborn's arm.

The newborn, still running flat out, hissed savagely at her pursuers just as the woman caught her by the wrist. Carlisle grabbed the girl's shoulder at almost the same moment, and when he and the woman tried to slow down, the girl they held turned and bared her teeth at them furiously. Carlisle and the woman had both stopped moving, but the young vampire still dragged them forward, their feet digging into the dead leaves and moist soil of the forest floor.

"John!" the woman shouted, trying to keep the newborn at arm's length while the girl, her reddish blond hair loose and wild, struggled against Carlisle's grip, trying to bite the other woman. Knowing he might soon regret it, Carlisle wrapped his arm around the young woman's waist, trying to hold her back before she succeeded in mauling her companion. A second later, he winced as he felt the newborn's teeth sink into his forearm, but since he was still holding her shoulder, he was able to pull her back before she could get a good enough grip to remove a chunk of his arm.

"John," the woman said again, this time sounding relieved, and then the big vampire emerged from the forest. Carlisle noticed now that his sleeves were badly torn, and on his arms were scars from countless bites similar to the one he'd just received.

"Thank you," John said, picking up the girl by the neck. She struggled, but John's movements were surprisingly gentle. "I see you've met Sarah. She likes to bite."

"Is your arm all right?" the woman asked quietly, her expression betraying some hard to read emotion—was it guilt, or irritation, or a mix of both? "I'm sorry. She got away from us rather unexpectedly."

"That's all right," Carlisle said, inspecting the wound. "She barely got me."

"LET ME GO!" Sarah roared, finally able to use her voice for something more than inarticulate snarls. "I'M _THIRSTY_!"

With a sigh, John shifted his grip on Sarah, so her head was trapped under his arm, thereby muffling her screams.

"She's very young," he said gruffly. "Only changed last week."

"Thank you for your help," the woman said, her voice filled with a kind of quiet authority, and Carlisle realized that she was the leader of this coven, not John. "My name is Mary, and this is John. And of course, you've met our Sarah."

"Yes," Carlisle said, nodding sympathetically as the small creature struggled to escape John's grasp. "I'm Carlisle. Is this your territory?"

"Yes," Mary said calmly, her expression abruptly closed. "Did you come here to hunt?"

"No, I'm just passing through," Carlisle said, hoping he sounded deferential enough for Mary's taste—there was a vague threat about her posture now. "I'll be gone before the night's over—I only came to see the opera."

"Opera?" John repeated blankly.

"In Charleston," Carlisle said. "It's called "Flora." It's been years since I've seen an opera, so I ran down here from Boston to see it. I'll only be in the area for the night."

Mary nodded absently. "Your eyes are a very…unusual color."

"That's because of my diet," Carlisle explained. "I don't hunt humans—I only feed from animals. For some reason, doing so has turned my eyes this color."

John and Mary looked at each other, both of their expressions bewildered. Sarah, either oblivious or indifferent to the conversation, still struggled to escape John's hold.

"That's…very interesting," Mary said, frowning thoughtfully at Carlisle. "Well, perhaps you can tell us more about your singular diet another time. Judging by the increased noise in the city, it's almost time for your opera."

"Mary…" John said quietly, but she shook her head at him. Carlisle was careful not to meet the bigger vampire's eyes—to do so might seem like a challenge. He was faster than John, but with him standing just a few feet away, if he decided to attack, even with Sarah to impede him, Carlisle knew he'd be torn to pieces in seconds.

"Normally, we would kill you, just to be safe," Mary explained impassively, almost apologetically. "Ours is a small coven—for a long time, it was just the two of us, and when trespassers appeared in our territory, we found that it was better to dispatch them quickly before they could bring back others to challenge us. But since you helped us with Sarah, we are in your debt. I dislike owing favors to anyone. Besides, your claim about your eyes is so farfetched that I rather doubt you're a spy from another coven looking to steal our land."

"Or," John suggested grimly, "he's simply a very good spy."

Mary shook her head. "A spy wouldn't have helped us. And I refuse to believe that anyone trying to gather information about our territory would be so conspicuous. Spies in the past have been far more discreet than Carlisle here, and they never had golden eyes either."

Carlisle risked a glance at John then, who shrugged. His silence (and the fact that he wasn't trying to pull Carlisle's head off) suggested that he had no further objections to Mary sparing a trespasser's life.

"Thank you again, Carlisle," Mary said politely, turning to look at him again. "You may go in peace tonight, but if you're still in our territory by the time the sun rises, we will come for you. Understand?"

"Yes, and I thank you for your leniency," Carlisle said, careful to keep his tone deferential and not at all sarcastic—it was hard to be civil in a situation like this, when someone would gladly kill you if you gave them any reason to, but Carlisle had dealt with territorial vampires like these before. If you kept your head, figuratively speaking, and treated them with respect, then you could literally keep your head, if your luck held and the vampires in question didn't change their minds before you could leave their hunting grounds. "I'll be gone in just a few hours."

Mary nodded, still staring at him speculatively. "Good. Then we wish you a pleasant evening."

"I wish you the same," Carlisle said, bowing slightly. Then, on a whim he added, "and good luck with Sarah."

Mary smiled at that. "Thank you. She is a handful, but…she is ours now, and we intend to take care of her."

John and Mary disappeared into the trees then, vanishing almost as suddenly as they'd appeared. John carried Sarah along with them, and Carlisle turned back toward Charleston, knowing that if his heart could still beat, it would have been pounding frantically. This wasn't the first such close call he'd had; as a lone vampire who'd often ventured into the territory of hostile covens (usually accidentally), Carlisle had had his share of death threats. But so far, all the coven leaders he'd known had been like Mary: sufficiently intrigued by his strangeness that they let him live, even when other vampires were suspicious of his eyes or solitary nature.

Good coven leaders—leaders who could trust those who followed them not to challenge them, and who therefore kept their positions and their lives—knew that it was best not to kill indiscriminately. Killing a vampire that posed an obvious threat was one thing, but killing an odd but seemingly harmless immortal had yet to be in the best interest of the covens he'd encountered, but Carlisle wondered how much longer his luck would hold in such situations. Because really, luck was the only reason he was still alive. He hadn't charmed Mary into letting him go, and he hadn't impressed her with his uniqueness—he'd simply convinced her that he was harmless.

_In cases like this, I can't help but be grateful that I'm generally regarded as a harmless lunatic_, Carlisle thought with a wry smile. He smoothed his suit as best his could, took a deep breath, and then made his way back into town just in time to see "Flora." If any of the humans who saw him that night were startled by his slightly disheveled appearance, including a hole in his sleeve in the shape of a human bite mark, they didn't comment on it. But then, people rarely spoke to him unless he spoke to them first. Carlisle knew that he required more practice at seeming approachable and human, rather than vaguely threatening and other. Still, it seemed slightly ironic that people were still unnerved by him after the events of that night, when he'd been the one intimidated by vampires.

"Flora" was not the best opera he had ever seen, or at least, Carlisle knew that on an objective level. But considering the close call he'd had that night, and knowing that one day, he might not have the good fortune to survive such an encounter, it seemed to Carlisle that the music of "Flora" was the sweetest thing he'd ever heard. And later that night, as he ran back to Boston, and relative safety, Carlisle tried to focus on music and pageantry, and to ignore how quickly his life could have ended earlier that evening. _Humans and immortals have that much in common at least_, he thought, returning home to a gray, drizzly morning. _We aren't nearly as invincible as we think we are. Death is always a possibility. _


	9. 1748

Hi everyone! This week's chapter takes place during the winter of 1748, and it includes a quote from Poor Richard's Almanac from that same year; please note that I found this quote online, and the internet, though often helpful, can also be a wretched hive of scum and villainy, so I'm not 100% sure it's accurate—more like 90% sure. (If you search Google, it's pretty easy to find the excerpt that the quote below comes from.) Anyway, I'm feeling good about getting this chapter finished and posted a lot more quickly than the last one; holiday weekends are always helpful this way. :) Thanks as always for your reviews, hope you have a great Memorial Day, and I'll see you again soon! :)

Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer is the author of "Twilight," and I'm only borrowing Carlisle for my own fangirlish pleasure. :)

_1748: Poor Richard's Imporved Almanack_

It was December, and as always, Carlisle found it necessary to don a rather ridiculous number of layers of clothing before venturing outside. After all, the humans of Philadelphia had to do so during this season, and they would have looked on their strange, pale neighbor the doctor with even more than their usual suspicion if he dared show himself out of doors without a coat. And of course, when he visited patients, he made a point of complaining about the cold as much as they did, but in reality, Carlisle loved winter. Since he couldn't feel the bitterness of the cold, he enjoyed the crisp scent of the air, the ease with which prey might be spotted, even from a distance, and the way that snow crunched softly underfoot as he ran to bring down an animal.

Observation of humans had taught him most of what he knew about dressing for winter, but this year, Poor Richard's Almanac had also had some helpful tips:

_For their Winter Dress, a Man makes use of three Pair of Socks, of coarse Blanketting, or Duffeld, for the Feet, with a Pair of Deerskin Shoes over them; two Pair of thick English Stockings, and a Pair of Cloth Stockings upon them; Breeches lined with Flannel…_

That was why, after attending church on a gray Sunday morning, Carlisle found himself laden with shirts, stockings, strong shoes and a thick scarf as he made his way out of town, walking at a human pace until he passed the last house, and then beginning to run as he reached the relative wilderness of the forests outside Philadelphia.

Humans in town often commented on his habit of taking what they assumed were leisurely walks in the forest, no matter the weather or the season; Carlisle had learned from experience that being too eccentric could be dangerous, but being just a bit eccentric made you somehow endearing to humans. They thought him odd, but not quite mad, for venturing out of town alone—though Philadelphia had been settled for some time, people still worried about attacks by hostile natives, or wild animals, or even vengeful spirits, which, if tales the world over were to be believed, seemed to lurk in every forest. Carlisle, of course, didn't fear natives, he actively sought out wild animals, and he was, after all, the very sort of creature that populated the tall tales of his human acquaintances. Besides, Carlisle had run far beyond the outskirts of Philadelphia, and he knew that the true wilderness beyond the more settled territories would awe and terrify colonists when those regions were eventually discovered.

As he ran through the woods, Carlisle felt himself relaxing after days of stress and worry. For the past two weeks, he'd been caring for a large family sick with something, probably influenza. They lived on the edge of town, and so far, the illness hadn't spread beyond their small farm—Carlisle, after all, couldn't catch the sickness, and he'd been the family's only visitor of late, bringing them food each day and cautioning them to keep to themselves and rest as best they could, so Carlisle hoped that the flu wouldn't sicken the rest of the town. In spite of his best efforts, two of the youngest children had died earlier that week, and now the mother was gravely ill as well, perhaps more from grief than physical illness. She'd seemed better the night before, however, which was why Carlisle had decided to take the time to hunt before returning to the farm.

It had been fifteen days since Carlisle had hunted last, the longest he'd ever gone, and his throat had burned horribly during the most recent hours he'd spent in the stifling house with seven humans, most of them sick and weak. There had even been moments when Carlisle, looking at the prone figures in his care, had feared that he wouldn't be able to resist the pull of their blood. He'd wondered if his desire to help them had doomed them, for he knew in his heart that he wanted his human charges to live, to grow healthy again, but beneath his compassion for them, in a cold corner of his mind that was all predatory instinct, he could think of only one word for the helpless creatures: prey.

Now, far from humans and their scent, though only temporarily, Carlisle felt calmer. After drinking two deer and a lynx, he felt like himself again, and the thought of returning to town and work and dying humans didn't pain him as badly as it had before. Even if he couldn't save their lives, he might at least make their final hours as comfortable as possible.

At times, the strangeness of the way he lived occurred to Carlisle. Objectively speaking, he knew that he needn't force himself to endure discomfort and temptation in the often vain hope of extending the all too brief lives of humans—only his conscience required it, and he knew that most of his kind had learned to silence that nagging voice after just a few years of feeding on the blood of the living to survive. But Carlisle could not forget the compassion he felt for human suffering. He had no desire to live without such emotions, painful as they could sometimes be…especially this past week, when he'd had to watch parents watch their children slip into death, knowing that there was nothing more he could do…

In spite of such experiences, it was worth the pain, worth the sorrow, if there was even a chance that he could help someone. Carlisle truly felt that way, but in the past few days, at times, he'd dreamed of simply running into the woods and never emerging. No, he wouldn't be helping people if he fled the life he had for one in the wilderness, but he wouldn't risk hurting anyone either, living a solitary life far from anyone whose blood could set his throat ablaze. It would be a far easier life, but Carlisle knew that it wouldn't be a happier one. It would be a life devoid of purpose, a surrender really; mere existence, not life.

Difficult as it was at times, Carlisle knew that the life he had, filled with hope and sorrow, success and failure, was far better than any safe, solitary life he could live in the woods. Still, it was impossible not to consider it sometimes. It was only an idle dream, one Carlisle indulged in moments of weakness, but it was a pleasant diversion just the same, to think of something other than his isolation, his inability to save as many lives as he would like, or to find others of his kind to share a life with.

Just as Carlisle was turning back toward the city, hoping to find some more game on the way, he caught the familiar scent of deer and took off after it. In moments like this, he could embrace the predator within, letting a part of himself that he usually tried to suppress have free rein. But just as Carlisle was about to leap from a small rocky outcrop and down into a valley where a deer was nibbling at the bottom of a cedar tree, he forced himself to stop, some part of him too stunned by what he saw to want to kill the animal.

The deer was albino, as white as the snow that surrounded it, and though it froze in alarm when it heard the quiet sound of Carlisle's feet skidding to a stop, he was downwind of the creature, and after a few seconds of nervously staring in his direction, Carlisle's patience paid off, and the animal went back to feeding. Somehow, simply watching the animal was an incredible relief—that he could have a desire to simply watch it, just because it was beautiful, unique, and not just a source of blood—watching the deer, Carlisle felt that perhaps there was something human in him that time couldn't kill. He'd been alive for over a hundred years, and yet he was still capable of awe, still able to find quiet moments of joy in wholly unexpected places. Wasn't that a uniquely human characteristic?

Maybe it was camaraderie he felt too; he knew what it was to be unlike every other creature of his kind in a very obvious way. Whatever the reason, Carlisle watched the deer until it had finished eating what it could from the cedar, and then it disappeared into the trees, not knowing how close it had come to death. Then Carlisle turned back toward Philadelphia, his heart far lighter than it had been before—it was strangely comforting to discover that he wasn't the only unusual creature that roamed these woods.


	10. 1751

Hi everyone! I finished today's chapter something like three weeks ago, but it clearly took a bit longer than I expected to get around to editing it. "Stregoni" chapters usually seem to run long, which means editing takes longer, but really, that's something I enjoy about these stories. It's fun to take the time to dwell on Carlisle's past, and I should probably always say this, but please forgive me for any anachronisms—my knowledge of 18th century history is terribly spotty. :) Thanks as always for your reviews, and I'll see you again soon!

Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer, not I, is the author of "Twilight." I am only borrowing Carlisle for my own amusement. :)

_1751: The Pennsylvania Hospital and Art in the New World_

Leaves were falling from the trees above him as Carlisle left the Pennsylvania Hospital late one autumn afternoon. It was the first hospital built in the colonies, and as such, Carlisle had entered its ranks under an alias. If he wanted to work at the hospital again in a hundred years, he certainly didn't want to have the same name as one of its first surgeons.

On the whole, the hospital was a testament to the huge improvements that had been made to the state of medicine as it had been when he'd first come to the new world, but Carlisle couldn't help but think that his American contemporaries were still behind European surgeons and physicians when it came to their ideas about human anatomy and surgical techniques. Then again, Carlisle supposed that, as the saying went, another man's farm always seemed more fertile than your own. Probably, medicine was still a deeply flawed science no matter where you went. Much had improved in the past century though, and after a long day at work, Carlisle couldn't help but look forward to the doubtless even greater advances that another hundred years would bring to his profession.

Carlisle was walking toward the book shop, eager to buy some new volumes to occupy him for another lonely night when he spotted the artist. It was a cloudy fall day, but so far, the weather had stayed dry, so there were several people braving the chill in the air to sell their wares on the street. The artist had set himself a bit apart from the other street vendors who sold food, candles, and other goods, presumably to get away from the smell of his neighbors, many of whom clearly hadn't bathed in some time, and might not bathe again until spring.

He had several paintings displayed on wooden easels that he had clearly built himself. There were a number of landscapes, a scene of Philadelphia at sunset which gave Carlisle pause, as well as several portraits of a beautiful dark-haired woman with large green eyes. The paintings were lovely, but after a cursory glance, Carlisle couldn't help but stare at the artist. After all, he was a vampire.

"Hello," the artist said nervously, taking in Carlisle's eyes. Carlisle was nearly a head taller than the painter, so he smiled as reassuringly as possible while sizing up the other man—he was short and stocky, and though of course he didn't need them, he was wearing spectacles, probably to draw attention away from his red eyes. The lenses of the spectacles had been coated in what looked like a thin sheen of blue paint, so even when the man looked you in the eye, his irises looked more purple than red. Of course, a street vendor who could afford eyeglasses was rather conspicuous, but it was still a clever trick. Despite the man's size, Carlisle was wary. Small didn't necessarily equate to harmless, and Carlisle was especially inclined to be cautious upon encountering a strange vampire so close to where he lived and worked.

"Hello," Carlisle said politely, nodding at the man. "Are you new in town? I haven't seen you around here before."

"Yes, my—my wife and I just came here from New York," the man said uneasily. "Is—is this your…" He lowered his voice, though Carlisle was sure that they were already out of human earshot. "Is this your territory?"

"No, I live in this neighborhood, but I don't hunt here, and I'm not with any coven," Carlisle said quietly. "Have any of the covens approached you yet? They can be rather territorial."

"Yes," the man said, looking slightly relieved now. As a rule, a lone vampire without a coven wasn't much of a threat. "Thomas Ebersole's coven has taken us under their protection. My mate and I have no interest in joining a coven, but Ebersole said that he'll let us stay here provided we hunt carefully and that we pay a small fee each month to hunt on his land. That's how we lived in New York as well."

Carlisle raised his eyebrows. He'd known coven leaders to do such things—having vampires not attached to a coven pay the coven a kind of rent to hunt in their territory wasn't unheard of, but Carlisle hadn't known that Thomas Ebersole had adopted the practice. Clearly, the vampires of Philadelphia were becoming better organized and more business-minded.

"Forgive me, but your eyes are a very striking color," the painter said, looking more fascinated than frightened now. "Would you mind…that is, would you consider sitting for me sometime?"

"It's been a long time since anyone's asked me that," Carlisle said with a chuckle. "I haven't met many artists since leaving Europe, but I'd be happy to sit for you, if only so I could see more fine paintings like yours here in the colonies. Your scenes of cities, both this one and New York, are particularly good."

The man smiled, pleased. "Thank you. The state of art in the colonies is…well, it's improving. I've only been here fifteen years, and already, things have gotten better. Oh, but I forget my manners; I'm John Walker."

"Carlisle Cullen," Carlisle said, shaking the man's hand, though they only did so for the sake of any humans who might be watching them—vampires did not generally shake hands, except for show. "So, how do you and your wife find Philadelphia so far?"

"It's been a bit of a challenge, staying inconspicuous," John said with a shrug, lowering his voice even more. "My mate, Prudence, is very young, not a newborn, but only a few years old. When I found her, she was alone, so it would seem that no one ever really taught her to be careful—I can't be certain though, as she doesn't like to speak of it."

Carlisle nodded sympathetically. "It must be difficult for both of you, adjusting to a new territory."

"Prudence is...getting better at controlling herself, but she's often very thirsty," John acknowledged. "Most days, she stays inside and either reads or poses for me, and really, I suppose I only venture outside to hunt with her or to sell my paintings. I've certainly been…less than discreet in the past myself. We left New York at the recommendation of the coven leader whose territory we used. We'd both made too many mistakes, and it was agreed that it would be best for everyone if we left. I don't mind saying that the covens there could be rather intimidating, in situations like that."

"Have you ever thought of…trying things another way?" Carlisle asked casually.

"How do you mean?" John wondered.

"The reason my eyes are this color is because I don't hunt…the way the rest of our kind do. I hunt animals exclusively, and I've been living this way for quite a few years now. Actually, I've never tasted human blood."

"Goodness," John said, eyes widening behind his glasses. "Is that really possible?"

"Well, I'm alive, so to speak, and I'm not very thirsty today, so it certainly seems to be," Carlisle said. This always happened when he met a new immortal: he would try to explain his diet as casually and objectively as possible, and his audience would quickly shift from incredulity to a kind of humoring attitude that humans generally adopted when dealing with children or the infirm of mind or body. Other vampires thought him ridiculous at best and at worst, a lunatic whose insanity might be contagious. Already, it was clear that John was dismissing his claim as impossible, though he was, Carlisle guessed, going to be polite about it.

"Well," John said after a slight pause, "that's certainly an interesting idea. I'll have to give your diet a try the next time Prudence and I go for a stroll in the woods."

Carlisle nodded, smiling slightly. "Please do. You may be pleasantly surprised with the result, though I'll grant you that carnivores taste far better than herbivores."

John smiled too, thoroughly at ease now; Carlisle was bigger than he was, but it was clear that John thought he was also a bit crazy, and thus probably harmless. "Indeed? I'll keep that in mind then."

Having concluded that the dietary portion of the conversation was over, Carlisle turned to examine John Walker's paintings again. Though the paintings of Prudence were lovely, Carlisle had no interest in having a stranger's portrait (let alone the wife of a near-stranger) hanging in his home. In a way, he was a bit surprised that John should want people he didn't know to purchase his wife's likeness and gaze upon it every day, but upon further consideration, Carlisle decided that it wasn't really so strange. John was an artist, so he wanted to share the beautiful things he'd created with the world. He was also, apparently, a proud husband, who was happy to have his wife admired—in any case, it wasn't as though any human man could ever steal her away, so what was there to worry about?

"What's this?" Carlisle asked, pausing before what looked to be a painting of an ape.

"_That_ is a piece I did at the exhibition of the first performing monkey brought to the colonies," John said proudly. "I painted it earlier this year. Fancy it for your personal collection?"

"No, thank you, but I will take that one," Carlisle said, nodding at a streetscape of Philadelphia. "It's very good, especially considering you haven't lived here long. I think you've really captured the spirit of the city."

"Thank you," John said, accepting the money that Carlisle gave him and handing him the painting. "One of my favorite things about immortality is that I have so much time—an endless amount of time, I hope—to enjoy all the beauty that the world has to offer. Seeing amazing things and then painting them was my passion when I was alive, and it's only gotten more intense since I was changed. When I think that I might now spend decades, or even _centuries_ creating art…well, bothersome bloodlust aside, I can honestly say that I've never been happier."

Carlisle smiled—he always loved meeting people who were as passionate about their professions as he was about his—it was a rare treat. "Well then, perhaps I'll make a point of asking you to paint the same street you captured in this painting again in a hundred years time, just to see how things have changed."

They parted with Carlisle promising to visit John and Prudence's home the following day, and as Carlisle walked home that chilly fall evening, he couldn't help but wonder where he'd be in a hundred years. Would he still be as happy in his work in 1851 as he was in 1751, as happy as John seemed to be? And by then, would he have found someone to share his life with?


	11. 1760

Hi everyone! First of all, my apologies: yikes, how long has it been since I last posted a chapter? A really long time, is how long, and that's bad. Once again, sorry for being so slow to update, but with two weekly stories going right now, this one's been on the backburner so to speak. However, I'm only a couple of chapters away from finishing one of my regular stories, so starting in October, I should be able to update "Stregoni" more regularly. In this chapter, Carlisle does the best he can to help two people in danger. Thanks for your reviews and your patience, and I'll see you again soon. (And hopefully, I really mean it this time…)

Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer is the author of "Twilight." I am only borrowing Carlisle for my own nefarious purposes. :)

_1760: Rising From the Ashes_

Carlisle had just finished draining a tasty cougar when he heard the unexpected sound of a baby laughing. There had been a terrible fire in Boston the previous week, and though Carlisle didn't live in the city, he'd traveled there to help the injured as best he could. Now, he was in the forest a few miles from town, and thankfully, his thirst was mostly sated, because as soon as he didn't have the large cat or its warm, rich blood to distract him, he could hear and smell two humans downwind of him.

Hurrying up a tree, Carlisle leapt from branch to branch until he was perched above the pair. It was a young woman with an infant in her arms, crouched beside a small rock formation and clearly trying to keep out of the wind. Her clothes were torn and stained with mud, and she was breathing heavily, as though she'd just run a great distance.

Carlisle waited a few minutes, wondering what he should do—could he offer the woman aid? Saying, what, that he was a hunter? He had no gun to back up that claim, no bag to make him look like a traveler either. He couldn't very well say that he was simply taking an innocent midnight stroll in a forest that was teeming with dangerous wild animals. Just then, the sound of a horse and rider, accompanied by several dogs, reached Carlisle's ears; the party gradually approached, and as he watched, the woman tensed when her own ears finally detected the sounds coming toward her. She looked around, clearly trying to decide which direction to run in next—there was a lot of underbrush to get tangled in if she chose the wrong path—but then someone began shouting.

"LIZ!" a voice suddenly screamed. "Liz, I know you're out there! I'll set the dogs on you, so help me God, I will! They tracked you all this way, and they're hungry, Liz! So come out now or I'll have them drag you back to me!"

The woman made a choked sound below him, and Carlisle sighed. Clearly, he had to help her, but it would be virtually impossible to do so without showing her that he wasn't human. Of course, having no time to be discreet did rather simplify things.

As the woman, panicked, raced toward a thick copse of trees, her baby starting to cry now, Carlisle leapt down to the ground so that he landed right behind the fleeing woman. Then he caught hold of her, very gently, and covered her mouth with his hand to muffle her scream.

"Be as still and as quiet as you can, please," he whispered, and then he jumped back up into the trees. The woman, apparently frozen in shock, did as he'd asked; she stopped screaming, and she barely moved, even to breathe. Moving from branch to branch, Carlisle carried the woman and the baby a few miles away from the braying dogs and angry husband, who, judging by the scent of gunpowder in the air, was carrying a musket. Carlisle didn't want to risk being seen and having the man discharge the weapon, though he'd smelled alcohol in the man's vicinity too, so there was a good chance he'd miss any shot he took. Still, there was no reason to take that chance, given that the woman and her infant weren't as impervious to musket balls as he was.

Finally, Carlisle dropped out of the trees. The woman shrieked quietly as the ground rushed toward them, but they landed softly.

"Are you all right?" he said quietly, moving to stand in front of the woman. She was gaping at him, and though the baby in her arms was squirming, she was cooing again instead of crying.

"I—yes," the woman said, squinting at him. "I—who are you? And how did you—that is—are you some sort of…spirit?"

"Spirit?" Carlisle repeated. He wasn't sure what he'd expected, but it wasn't this.

"People tell daft stories about a vengeful spirit that haunts these woods," the woman stammered. "At least, I thought they were daft, only I thought ghosts couldn't touch people?"

"No," Carlisle said, smiling slightly. "I mean, I think you're right—most ghosts can't grab people, at least not that I've heard. But I'm not…that sort of spirit anyway."

"Ah," the woman said. She hugged her baby a bit closer, and her eyes were still wide with shock, but she made no move to run away.

"Do you need help…getting away from Boston?" Carlisle offered hesitantly. "That man—is he your husband?" He was examining a nasty bruise on the woman's forehead as he spoke, and he frowned. Having never had a wife or real family of his own, Carlisle had no patience for men who abused the blessings they had.

"I won't go back," the woman said quietly, her voice low and fierce. Resting the baby against her shoulder, she freed one hand and pulled a knife from the bag slung over her shoulder. "I mean it. I'll kill him if I have to go back to him. Just now, when he said he'd send the dogs after me, I was more worried about having to hurt the dogs than hurting him. They're my friends, I don't think they would have really attacked me—can you believe that? Trusting hungry dogs more than my own husband…"

"I believe you," Carlisle said, not doubting the conviction in the woman's voice in the slightest. "But killing him isn't going to improve things for you. What if I help you get to New York? I could give you what you'd need to start a new life."

The woman stared at him. "Why would you do that? Shouldn't you be dragging me home now and telling me to pray that my husband forgives me? That's why my brother did. That's what the minister did, and my sister's husband, and my friends' husbands. Every time he's hurt me, I've tried to get away, but someone always drags me back. Something about honoring the same marriage vows he disrespects every time he strikes me. But not this time. God as my witness, he's never going to lay a hand on my daughter."

"I understand," Carlisle said quietly.

"No, you don't," the woman whispered bitterly. "You've never been at the mercy of men, of their idea of what a woman's place is."

Carlisle nodded. He'd been at his father's mercy once, but that had been a long time ago, and his life had never been what this woman—Liz, probably short for Elizabeth?—had described.

"You're right," Carlisle said. "I don't understand, not the way you can. But I'd still like to help you. I have friends in New York who could help you find a place to live. Can you work?"

The woman still seemed a bit baffled by his willingness, even eagerness, to help her, but she nodded slowly. "I—I can sew very well. The mayor's wife would sometimes buy things I'd done."

"All right then," Carlisle said. "If you don't mind my carrying you, I can take you to the city now. Many people from Boston who lost their homes have already traveled there, so your arrival shouldn't be noticed, and I doubt you'll be questioned if you choose to tell people you're a widow."

The woman shook her head. "I must be dreaming. Are—are you going to fly again?"

"I can't fly," Carlisle said with a smile, gently lifting the woman up again. "I can only run and jump very quickly."

Then, he took off again, and after a few minutes of distressed noises from the baby, she quieted down and eventually fell asleep. The woman was tense for most of the journey, and Carlisle knew that her eyes must be wide open and amazed. He also knew that he was taking a dangerous risk, letting this woman see that he wasn't human, but he felt that he had to help her, regardless of the consequences. Saving lives, easing suffering—that was the reason he'd become a surgeon in the first place. How could he call himself a healer if he ignored suffering or enabled it through inaction?

They stopped just before dawn. By then, the woman had fallen asleep, but the baby was starting to stir—she was hungry. Carlisle sat a polite distance away from the pair while Elizabeth fed her child and cleaned its diaper as best she could in a shallow stream. (He had decided to call her Elizabeth, if only in his own head, preferring the longer name to her husband's crass shouts of 'Liz.')

Carlisle already knew what he would say in New York: she was his cousin's widow, his cousin having died trying to fight the fire in Boston. She was good at needlework, but would work hard at other jobs too. Her new life might be a difficult one at first, but the people that Carlisle planned to send her to were kind, a baker and his wife who were childless, and in his experience, always thrilled by any chance to help people, particularly mothers and children. They were charitable people who would want the best for Liz, though he would give them a little money too, just to offset the expense of having two more mouths to feed in their house. Elizabeth was young and pretty, so she might remarry if she wished—from a legal standpoint, such a thing wasn't really allowed, but Carlisle was of the opinion that God made exceptions in cases like this, even if the law didn't.

"Sir?" Elizabeth said suddenly. When Carlisle turned to face her, she seemed embarrassed but determined.

"Yes?" he prompted when she stayed silent.

"I…I want to thank you for helping me and my daughter like this. I promise to work hard and be a credit to you. You seem like a very kind man, so I hope you won't be offended when I ask…why are you helping us like this?"

Carlisle nodded. "That's a reasonable question. I don't suppose you'd believe that I'm acting strictly out of charity?"

Elizabeth regarded him seriously. "No."

Carlisle sighed. Perhaps due to her recent experiences with her husband, this woman didn't seem to be easily frightened—she certainly didn't seem afraid of him—wary perhaps, but not afraid, even after his acrobatics in the forest. However, she didn't seem drawn to him as many human women were either. She simply seemed thoughtful. It was a slightly disconcerting sensation, being stared at by a human who knew that he was something else.

"Honestly, Elizabeth, I helped you because I don't understand men like your husband," Carlisle said at last. "If I had a wife and child, I would only want to take care of them. I can't imagine…hurting someone weaker than me. Men like your husband make me angry, but I think it's better to help people like you than to hurt people like him. So, that's what I tried to do tonight. It was a bit selfish, really."

"What do you mean?" Elizabeth asked quietly.

"I helped you because I knew doing so would make me feel better," Carlisle said simply, thinking about all the women like Elizabeth he couldn't help, all the sick children and mothers and fathers and all manner of other family members who he didn't always have the power to save.

Elizabeth eyed him for a moment longer. In a few minutes, she would walk into town, Carlisle in tow to introduce her to his friends, and she would start a new life. She still seemed thoughtful though.

"Again sir, I don't wish to speak rudely, but…why don't you have a wife and child, if you'd like to have them?"

Carlisle smiled sadly. Here was a woman who spoke her mind. He hoped that the people she was going to would appreciate that quality; as Carlisle recalled, the baker's wife was similarly opinionated. To his relief, Elizabeth's words didn't seem to suggest that she'd like for him to become her husband. She merely sounded curious...and perhaps a bit concerned.

"There aren't any women like me," he said at last. "People who can…do what I can, there aren't many of us." There—let her make of that what she would. He couldn't very well tell her that he'd never met a female vampire willing to abstain from human blood. It was a miracle that she hadn't already collapsed from stress and fatigue—the truth probably wouldn't be met with a positive reception just now, even if he were able to tell it.

"Well then," Elizabeth said, rocking her daughter a little as she began to stir, "I hope that you find someone like you, sir. Soon."

Her smile was genuine then, and Carlisle felt a pang when he realized that she felt sorry for him—she, who was almost completely alone in the world, could somehow see that he was an even lonelier creature than herself. Then he smiled, preparing himself to lead her into the city as soon as the hour struck when the bakers usually rose, to pretend to be human again, just as he did every day. He couldn't tell this woman much in the way of the truth about himself—he hardly dared to face the truth of his solitary existence even in the privacy of his own mind. However, he could at least be honest about this:

"Thank you. I hope so too."


	12. 1776

Hi everyone! Sorry for yet another really long delay in updating, but now that I'm done with "Breaking Dawn" updates for "Eternity," I decided to finally finish this new chapter of "Stregoni." And I know I've said this before, but I really intend to update more frequently from now on; "Eternity" is going to be updated weekly again, so I should at least be able to manage a couple of chapters of "Stregoni" each month, plus some other fun things I'm working on now…:) Thanks for your patience and for asking me to continue this story, Happy early Thanksgiving, and I'll see you again soon! (No, I really mean it this time! :P)

Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer, not I, is the author of "Twilight," and can thus do as she pleases with Carlisle, but seriously, I'd love it if he had his own book. (Of course, that's why I'm writing this. :))

_1776: The Declaration of Independence_

It was an unremarkable cloudy day near the end of August, and Carlisle was just opening the door of the house he'd rented in Philadelphia when a carriage pulled up beside him.

"Here we are," a familiar haughty voice announced. "There, I told you we weren't lost. Carlisle, be a dear and pay the driver, then take my things inside."

Carlisle turned and grinned widely at the woman gazing out the carriage window at him. It was Liza, who he hadn't seen in years, and now all at once here she was on his doorstep, looking just as he'd seen her last, though her clothes were much finer, and she was behaving as though she came to pay him a call every Friday afternoon.

"Now this is a pleasant surprise!" Carlisle said, pulling out some money for the fare after he'd unloaded Liza's luggage. For the sake of the human driver (who was barely paying attention at the moment, as his horses were spooked by the presence of two vampires), Carlisle bowed politely to Liza and said, "it's very good to see you, Auntie."

"Thank you, dear," Liza said airily, clearly enjoying her 'rich old woman visiting a poor relation' act. "If you don't mind my saying so, your home is hardly prepossessing, but if you'll have me, I should like to stay on for a few days before I make my way to New York. At my age, it's best to get plenty of rest while traveling."

"I'll be very happy to have you stay with me," Carlisle said, bowing again to his rich 'aunt' when he noticed the coach driver staring at them. Though still struggling to control his horses, the man was obviously struck by the appearance of his former passenger and her supposed nephew. Carlisle knew from those few occasions when he'd visited with his own kind that while one vampire was noteworthy but not particularly unnerving, two or more were positively startling to most humans.

Now, with him and Liza standing side by side, it must be obvious how different they looked from the humans still passing in the street around them, hurrying home as darkness approached. Odor was a factor too; vampires were often striking simply because they didn't smell of body odor or offal or food. Liza was clearly wearing perfume in an attempt to cover her true scent, but rather than masking it, the sweet smell only seemed to enhance the distinct fragrance that was unique to immortals.

After tipping the driver as handsomely as he dared (it wouldn't do well for Carlisle to give him too much money, living as he did in a relatively humble part of town), Carlisle pretended to struggle as he lifted Liza's bags through his front doorway. Then he led his guest inside.

"Ugh," Liza sighed as soon as they'd shut the door on the human world outside. "And I thought London smelled foul. The colonies have a stink all their own. Now, if you've nothing else planned just now, I should appreciate it very much if you'd point me to the nearest prison. I've been thirsty for days, and it was all I could do not to make a meal of that driver just now, odiferous as he was."

"You're your usual cheerful self, I see," Carlisle said with a smile. "What on earth finally possessed you to come visit me after all this time? There's a war going on, you know."

"Oh yes, I've heard," Liza said dismissively. "Taxes are too high or some such thing—like every war before it and every war to come, this one's going to end in a lot of people dying in the name of ideas they barely understand. Now, let's go for a walk, shall we? I know it offends your sensibilities, but I am positively parched, and I promise not to drink anyone who doesn't deserve it. I'll unpack when we return, and then you can show me around your modest abode. I promise that I shall only take advantage of your hospitality for a few weeks."

"Stay as long as you'd like," Carlisle said, delighted at the prospect of a lengthy visit from a friend. The area covens were tolerant of his presence in the city but disinclined to socialize, and the vampire couple that had once resided in Philadelphia had left town after one too many conspicuous kills. Last he'd heard, they were living somewhere out in the wilderness, preying on natives and travelers unlucky enough to cross their path. Thus, it had been some time since he'd had anyone to talk to, and he was particularly eager to visit with Liza, with whom he had years and years worth of catching up to do.

It was full dark when they stepped outside. The evening air was still warm after a humid day, and though Carlisle guessed that it was raining in the distance, whatever showers there were hadn't reached town just yet. In any case, Liza's hat would protect her somewhat if it did start to rain, and the cap he wore would do the same for him. As always, the concern wasn't physical discomfort so much as humans seeing them and commenting on their apparent lack of discomfort, should anyone notice such a thing. Carlisle could often understand why other vampires preferred to live entirely separate from humans; it was a great deal of work, always having to blend in and consider details that might strike humans as suspicious, but for Carlisle, the rewards were worth the risk. The same was true for Liza, he guessed, if only because she enjoyed playing at being human.

"So, you've been traveling the world, I take it?"

"I have at that," Liza said, taking his arm as if she needed his aid to walk, and they moved at the cautious pace of an elderly human. Now that it was dark, people wouldn't see two unnaturally perfect faces or an old woman who moved too easily and quickly for her age; they'd simply see an aged lady being escorted somewhere by a young man—of course, Carlisle reflected, this was precisely why most of their kind hunted at night. In the dark, the figure that Liza cut was perfectly harmless. No one who saw her now would guess that she could effortlessly kill creatures several times her size.

"I'm sorry I haven't written more frequently, but they don't have post in many of the places I've been," she went on. "In any case, it's easier to travel in secret than to try and move about in human guise. An old lady alone like me attracts too much attention. Finally, I just got fed up, waiting for dear old England to adequately colonize the rest of the world, and instead I went to the far east on foot. It was quite a lark, I must say, creeping around in jungles and having the poor peoples of India and Siam thinking I was some sort of ghost or demon, come to haunt them."

Carlisle shook his head. "You're a bit of a sadist, you know. Not all of us enjoy frightening our food."

"I think that the majority of us do, actually," Liza said, giving him a look. "You're the exception to the rule, not me. But I'll tell you all about my travels later, after I've eaten. While we're out and about, I suppose we'd best talk about things that aren't supposed to be kept secret. So, what is all this declaration business I've heard about lately? The papers here are certainly full of it."

"The Declaration of Independence," Carlisle said. "It was just signed on the second of this month, or so I've heard. It's an impressive document, I'd say—well-written and to the point, and...well, I suppose I'd say that it's one of the most optimistic political documents I've ever read."

"Optimistic?" Liza said skeptically. "How so?"

Carlisle smiled. "There's one sentence I particularly like. It reads, 'We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness.'"

Liza grunted, unimpressed. "Nothing about all _women_ being created equal, I notice."

"And the hypocrisy of the fact that the Declaration was written by men who own slaves seems to be lost on most people," Carlisle said with a sigh. "The New World is hardly a perfect place, and I daresay it never will be. Still, I'd rather that this new nation, if that's what we succeed in becoming, have lofty ideals to rise to. If you look at the Declaration as a goal, a promise of better things to come if we work toward everyone really being equal, then it's really quite heartening, don't you think?"

"Oh, Carlisle," Liza said with another sigh. "It's hopeful people like you who keep the world spinning on while old cynics like me grumble into our tea. Well, since I can't in good conscience make fun of your declaration now, give me some local gossip to occupy my dissipated old mind."

As they walked on, Carlisle told her what little he knew of local vampire goings on, as well as what his human neighbors were up to. Like him, Liza was genuinely interested in humans, although in her book, they were a valuable source of entertainment and good for little else, save meals.

"Here we are," Carlisle said reluctantly a few minutes later. "Walnut Street Jail. It was just opened this year, to deal with the overcrowding in High Street Jail."

"Excellent," Liza said, her black eyes already wide and eager at the prospect of having so much prey so close. "Wait here then—I'll be back in two shakes—unless you'd like to join me?"

"I always say no, Liza," Carlisle said wearily. "And I always will."

Liza grunted. "Suit yourself. Back in a tic." Then she was gone, just another silent shadow in the darkness.

Now it was Carlisle's turn to sigh, but he held his tongue. Though he would never approve of Liza's diet, he found that he was committed enough to the concept of personal liberty to know that the decision regarding who or what she ate was hers and hers alone. Perhaps one day, she would see things the way he did and change her manner of hunting. But for now, he waited outside Walnut Street Jail, a place where she'd easily find any number of people to make a meal of. If this was the price he had to pay for friendship, then so be it.


	13. 1783

Hi everyone! Sorry it's taken so long to post this, but I was sort of saving this chapter to be an early Christmas gift, and I ended up waiting until I was on vacation to edit it. (Up until now, I've been way too busy with Christmas stuff, but now that it's actually Christmas Eve, I have time to relax. :)) Here, I show my idea of how Carlisle and Garrett might have met. I really like Lee Pace, the actor who played Garrett, and FYI, he was also in "Lincoln" and "The Hobbit." (Maybe Lee Pace was actually in every movie this year and I just didn't notice...:)) Thanks for your reviews and for waiting so patiently for updates, and I'll see you again soon! :)

Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer is the author of "Twilight," and seriously, go see "Lincoln" and "The Hobbit" if you want to see more of Lee Pace. :) Also, Merry Christmas!

_1783_: An Immortal Patriot

After draining several deer, Carlisle was headed back toward town when something collided with him and threw him to the ground. He was on his feet again in an instant, but already the other vampire had him by the throat, and Carlisle thought, irrationally, that it was a good thing he didn't need to breathe, as the vampire who'd attacked him slammed him into a tree. Carlisle heard the wood of the oak behind him crack, but it was a large tree, and though it split right down the middle, it didn't topple over just yet.

Carlisle met the red eyes of the other vampire, who was still holding him by the throat, pinning him to the tree, and he decided that, given the wild look in his attacker's eyes, it might be best to remain still for the time being. Judging by his strength and speed, he was a newborn, and Carlisle knew better than to anger such a volatile creature.

"What are you?!" the vampire shouted suddenly. Then, a flicker of fear crossed his angry features. "What am_ I_?"

Carlisle stared at the other vampire, not understanding. Then, moving very slowly, he raised his hand and pointed to his neck. Still looking angry and more than a little frightened, the vampire let go of his throat.

"Thank you," Carlisle said, nodding at the other immortal. "We don't need to breathe, but I do need air to speak."

"What are _we_?" the strange vampire demanded. "Tell me, or I swear-"

"You're a vampire," Carlisle said gently. "We're both vampires. I've been this way for over a century now."

The vampire gaped at him. "A century?" he whispered.

"Yes. We never age, and we only need human or animal blood to survive."

The other vampire took a step back and was silent for a moment. Carlisle waited patiently for whatever question might occur to him next. He remembered his own early days as a vampire all too well, and clearly, this newborn was in the same position he'd been in: lost, confused, and alone. Whoever had created him apparently hadn't taken the time to wait until his transformation was complete to explain what he was.

"...how did I end up this way?" the vampire said at last.

"You were a soldier?" Carlisle said, nodding at the man's clothes. "Most likely, a vampire attacked you in the heat of battle. In the confusion, he, or she, probably killed many men before their blood quenched his or her thirst. Occasionally, it happens that one of us feeds so greedily that they'll bite a human without bothering to completely drain them of blood. It's rare, but it happens. In a case like that, the venom spreads throughout the body, changing a human until they're one of us."

"Is it possible to sate this horrible thirst then?" the vampire wondered, his expression pained. "I've killed I don't know how many British the past few days, but now that I've gone a day and night without..._drinking_ anyone, it feels as if there's a fire in my throat."

"You're young," Carlisle explained. "New vampires are always thirsty, especially in the first few weeks and months of this life, but it passes. In a few years-"

"Years?!" the other repeated.

"-you won't feel it so much. By the time you're my age, the scent of humans will still trouble you at times, but you'll be able to go longer without hunting. You can even live alongside humans, if you choose."

Carlisle decided then that he should stop talking for a bit. He wasn't sure if he was really helping, going on in such a vein about a future that was years or even decades away, but the other vampire seemed calmer now.

"I'm sorry," he said abruptly, "for attacking you just now. You're the first person, I mean _vampire, _that I've met, so I...I wasn't sure how to react."

Carlisle smiled and shrugged. "No harm done. I'm Carlisle, by the way."

"Garrett," the vampire said, offering his hand, which Carlisle shook.

"Fair warning," Carlisle said. "You might want to get out of the habit of shaking hands. Most of our kind don't do it."

Garrett frowned. "Why not?"

"Shakespeare surmised that men shake hands because the right hand is usually the sword hand, so if hands are clasped, it's a sign of peace, mostly because it's difficult to stab someone while the sword hand is occupied. I suppose vampires don't shake hands because we can't be hurt by swords, but we can kill each other even if we only have one free hand."

Garrett looked puzzled. "So, we don't age, but we can still be killed? I already know that sunlight can't hurt me, so what can? Holy objects? Setting foot in a church?"

"No, churches and crosses can't hurt us. It's other vampires you have to be wary of at times," Carlisle explained. "When you hunt, you'll want to be careful that humans don't see you. Keeping our kind a secret makes hunting easier, and many vampires claim specific territories as their own, which also makes hunting less conspicuous. Since you're on your own, you'll have to watch out for covens. Most don't mean nomads any harm, but they're careful to conceal their hunting activities so humans don't get suspicious. If you start killing carelessly on their hunting ground, they'll come after you."

Garrett nodded. "Makes sense, I suppose. Out here, I can do as I please with the redcoats I catch, but I suppose doing the same in the middle of a city might be troublesome. But it seems that I'm stronger than you. If I'm stronger than other vampires, who's to stop me if I do elect to hunt...conspicuously?"

"A coven called the Volturi," Carlisle said gravely. "They exist to enforce the only law our kind has, which is to keep ourselves a secret. They'll kill to uphold that law, and we _can_ be killed. If you tear one of us apart and burn what's left, we die. And anyway, you're especially strong now because you're young. You'll always be more powerful than humans, but in a few months, you won't be any stronger than I am."

Garrett frowned. "So basically, I'm dead now. I was killed by a vampire, and now I'm a vampire myself. And even in the afterlife, there's royalty to pester me?"

"I don't always agree with the Volturi," Carlisle conceded, "but in my lifetime at least, they've proven necessary. When I was young, many humans still believed that vampires were real, and I became a vampire myself because I made the mistake of hunting one. We're better off as legends, and humans are better off considering us such."

Garrett shrugged. "Well, as long as I don't have to bow to these Volturi, I suppose it's all right. If they'll let me alone, I'll let them alone."

"How long have you been out there?" Carlisle asked. "I'd heard that there was fighting out this way, but that battle's been over for a few days."

"I've been in this forest a week, maybe," Garrett said, looking thoughtful. "I can't remember exactly. I only remember running at the British, and thinking I was shot because something hit me, and I was in pain for a long time, but I didn't die. When the pain stopped, I got up and walked through the trees until I found a British camp. I could smell their fires and hear them talking from a long way off, and I ran until I was at the center of their camp.

I didn't feel afraid, or suicidal, or anything really. I don't remember thinking anything, except that I was horribly thirsty. Then I...I killed them all, with my bare hands, and drank their blood. I couldn't understand it. I thought I must have gone mad, or that I was having some kind of fever dream...but the dream didn't end, and I felt sane enough, in spite of the slaughter I'd committed. So, I've been wandering here in the wilderness, picking off redcoats and trying to figure out what I'd become. I'm glad you happened by, or else madness would still be my best explanation for all this."

Carlisle smiled. "Glad I could help. I need to head back to town now, so no one sees me in the sun once it rises, but I'll come back this way again next week, and we could talk again, if you'd like."

Garrett nodded. "I'd like that. I have a lot more questions for you."

Carlisle hesitated. "Just so you know, you don't have to live on human blood. Actually, I live on the blood of animals, and have since I was created. I have yet to meet any others of our kind that do the same, but it's...an option."

Garrett seemed amused by that suggestion. "Thanks, but with so many lobsterbacks on our soil, why would I want to hunt anything else?"

Carlisle smiled wryly. "Never mind. Just be careful no one sees you, especially in sunlight."

"Will do," Garrett said, his smile fierce. "So far, I haven't left anyone alive to tell tales about me anyway. See you next week." Then he disappeared into the trees, and judging by the scent Carlisle caught on the breeze, he was already hot on the trail of more redcoats.


	14. 1792

Hi everyone—this week's chapter is a sort of fun one, though it foreshadows something not-so-fun that's going to happen eventually in this story. A few chapters ago, I mentioned a vampire named John Walker, and his wife Prudence, and now they're back. Part of the reason I wrote this chapter is because I get the impression that Carlisle was never that surprised by Alice's gift. Of course, having Edward for a son would make seeing the future seem a lot less far-fetched, but I like the idea of Carlisle having met someone with a similar gift earlier in his life.

Basically, Prudence's gift (though not as powerful or as manageable as Alice's) is my explanation for how John and Prudence were able to avoid the wrath of covens whose lands they'd hunted on carelessly. (In reality, I feel like most nomads would be pretty easy to kill in a situation where they were outnumbered, but Prudence, having a little bit of foresight, might give herself and John a bit of an edge.) Also, though I like exploring vampires that we meet in "The Twilight Saga" in this story, I also like coming up with my own vampires that Carlisle might have known in his centuries before he found his family. Thanks once again for your reviews, and I'll see you again soon! :)

Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer is the author of "Twilight," and is anyone else getting excited for "The Host"? I'm really looking forward to the movie, and supposedly, Stephenie Meyer's working on a sequel now, so that's something to look forward to. :)

_1792: Columbus Day_

Carlisle was always amused by new holidays. The first time a given occasion was feted, it always remained to be seen whether or not the person, event, or thing being celebrated would really stand the test of time. On this, the 300th anniversary of Columbus' discovery of the New World, he was in New York City with Liza, who was at the end of her first tour of the fledgling nation. With them was a vampire painter (both an artist who was a vampire and an artist who painted vampires) named John Walker, along with his wife, Prudence. In the past, both had had problems managing their thirst, but they'd hunted diligently before joining Carlisle in the city today. Now, though they were eager to see the festivities, they were also determined to avoid the vampire covens of New York, who had made it clear in the past that the couple wasn't welcome in their territory.

"Are you quite sure it was all for the best?" Liza was saying as they watched a band play under a mostly cloudy sky. (All four of them were very conscious of the weather—if it got any sunnier, they would be forced to head indoors.) "That old Spaniard discovering this country instead of finding a new route to India, I mean. Honestly, what's wrong with the route we already had?"

"It took too long, I expect, by human standards anyway," John said, his expression wary. Carlisle was surprised that he'd insisted on coming to New York like this, but Prudence must have wanted to hear the music and see the spectacle of such a day. She was a quiet woman (she and Carlisle had never actually spoken more than greetings and polite pleasantries to each other), but her eyes were wide as they paused to watch a man breathe fire. Apparently, a circus troupe was taking advantage of the holiday to demonstrate their talents for whatever coins they could glean from the watching crowd. Judging by the broad smile on her face, Prudence was enjoying herself immensely, and every time she smiled at John, he relaxed minutely.

"But colonizing a country this size, with so many people living here already," Liza mused, and Carlisle, who was holding her arm, smiled down at her—Liza loved discursive conversations about things like this. He often thought that though she might not be able to solve the world's problems, she loved attempting to talk them into submission. "It's a pandora's box, I know—we can't go back now. But it often seems that humans might do better to leave well enough alone."

"I daresay the native peoples who have lost land here would certainly agree with you," Carlisle said, "but I like to think that this country is big enough for all of us, native and European, to share."

"Oh Carlisle," Liza sighed—sighing seemed to be her fallback maneuver whenever he (usually consciously) said something that she deemed overly optimistic. "You're naiveté is showing again, dear."

"There's quite a lot of land left to explore though," John ventured.

"John," Prudence said suddenly. "Isn't that one of your paintings?"

Everyone looked across the street and into the house that Prudence had gestured toward. Sure enough, when he looked through an open window at a painting hanging in a fine-looking house, Carlisle recognized a landscape he'd once seen for sale in John's roadside stall. Beaming with pride, John Walker nodded at his wife.

"I think I see the man I sold it to—do you mind if I go ask him if he's interested in another piece of mine?"

"Of course," Prudence said demurely, taking Carlisle's free arm as John made his way across the street at a human pace.

"You've quite an eye, young lady," Liza said quietly, "though I suppose that's something we all share."

"I knew we'd be coming here today," Prudence whispered, softly enough so that Liza and Carlisle would hear but John wouldn't. "I see things sometimes. Little...images of things that are going to happen."  
>Carlisle and Liza exchanged a look. "You can see the future?" Carlisle asked. "That's a powerful gift."<p>

"Which is why my husband and I keep it a secret," Prudence said. "I don't talk much since—well—when I was alive, people thought me wicked. For a long time, I was afraid to speak at all, for fear of what would happen. Before..." Prudence's face darkened. "Before I could protect myself, people...hurt me. They wanted to use what I could do. But I can't control it. I couldn't then and I can't now, not very well. Sometimes I see what's going to happen tomorrow, and sometimes I see the oddest things—flying coaches and great silver things in the sky—and I think I must be seeing things that won't happen for a very long time."

"Why are you telling us this, dear?" Liza said, her voice unusually gentle.

Prudence frowned. "Because I need to warn you both. It won't happen for a long time...maybe it's a hundred years away. But you need to watch out for a green door."

Liza and Carlisle glanced at each other again. "A...green door?" Carlisle repeated.

Prudence smiled another rare smile. "That sounds like something a fortuneteller would say, doesn't it? But it's true. It's a green door, with peeling paint, set in an old cottage in the woods. I don't know where, or when exactly. It's a long time from now...and I'm not sure how I know, but...something terrible is going to happen in that place. Something that will be terrible for all of us."

Liza frowned. "Hang on, if you've seen something terrible happening, you can see how to avoid it, can't you?"

Prudence shook her head. "It doesn't work that way. Usually, I just see an image. I can guess at when it might come true, and I feel...I feel what it's going to be like." Prudence looked apologetic now. "I'm sorry, but you two are the only people that John and I consider friends. That's why I haven't wanted to tell you—it seemed a poor way to repay your friendship, warning you about some dire calamity that's a long way away. But then yesterday, I saw myself telling you today. So...that's all. Perhaps I'm wrong about anything awful happening to us. I certainly hope so."

Carlisle and Liza were both silent for a moment—Carlisle didn't know what either woman on his arm was thinking, but for his part, he thought he understood Prudence's habitual silence a bit better now. If she'd had a similar, perhaps weaker gift of prophesy when she'd been human, he had to image that the consequences for sharing such visions had been terrible. Regardless of whether they came true or not, humans had hated bad omens when he'd been alive, and the intervening century had not changed much in that respect.

"Have you told John this?" Carlisle asked at last.

Prudence shook her head. "I didn't want to worry him. I try to only tell him pleasant things." Then she smiled. "He is a good man—the only man who has ever seen me as more than some kind of witch."

Liza snorted. "Witch? You're a goddess to him, darling. His muse."

"I know," Prudence said quietly. "That's why I would hate to burden him with a whisper of danger so far away. He saved me, and took care of me when I was all alone. So I want to take care of him, when I can."

"I won't say anything," Carlisle promised. "Who knows? Maybe there'll be a way to prevent the calamity you've foreseen, when the time comes."

"Exactly," Liza said, straightening her hat. "No point in worrying about things we can't control for another century. Thanks for the heads up just the same, Prudence. In this world, you can't be too careful, even if you're as durable as we are."

"Yes," Prudence said, smiling a little. "Thank you."

John returned then, still beaming. "He says he'd love to look at it. I'll bring it by this afternoon, and then we can be out of town by dark."

"That's wonderful, dear," Prudence said, and for the rest of the time the four of them were together, she was her usual nearly silent self. In early afternoon, just as the day was showing signs of becoming sunny, John and Prudence said goodbye, and Liza and Carlisle went back to the latter's apartment.

"I've got some books all packed up for you," Carlisle said, nodding at a package he'd wrapped up in brown paper. "I thought that if I wrapped them, you might find it easier to resist temptation a bit longer. Last time I gave you books, you read them all before your ship left port."

"Well, you do the same thing," Liza said, hefting the pile of books and smiling happily. Then she frowned. "Do you think she meant it? About...some calamity happening to us a hundred years from now?"

Carlisle frowned. "I don't know. I've never met a vampire who could see the future, but it's not the strangest gift I've ever heard of. I don't think she was lying, if that's what you mean."

"God no," Liza mused. "She was as serious as the plague. And now I know why the poor thing's been as silent as a church mouse the few times I've met her. Blimey, imagine knowing things like that, and debating whether or not to tell people! I wouldn't talk much either, for fear of what might come out of my mouth."

"I suppose we'll just have to wait and see if she was right," Carlisle said, drawing the curtains as some late afternoon sunlight streamed in. "Though perhaps you'd better not visit me a hundred years from now, just to be safe."

Liza snorted. "Oh, I'll visit you all right. I'll have to now, just to see if she was right."

Carlisle frowned. "Liza—"

"Carlisle, don't worry so much," she said decidedly, closing her hat box. "And I'll expect you to visit me when you come back to Europe in a few years. I'll want to hear your opinion of how the place has changed."

Carlisle smiled. "I wouldn't miss it." Grim prophesies or no, Carlisle enjoyed the prospect of still being friends with Liza in another hundred years. Anyway, he would have plenty of time to worry about a green door somewhere in his future later. Tonight, he was simply looking forward to one final evening of pleasant conversation with Liza before she sailed home.


	15. 1804

Hi everyone! Sorry for once again taking so long to update, but I'm finally back. This chapter focuses on an event I mentioned a long time ago in my other fic, "Eternity;" here, Carlisle meets Jane Austen. Sorry in advance if you spot any historically inaccuracies; I did a bit of research for this chapter, but any anachronisms left are on me. Thanks for your reviews and for waiting for updates, and I'll see you again soon! :)

Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer is the author of "Twilight," and my friend and I are going to see "The Host" on Friday! :)

_1804: A Party in Bath_

Carlisle stood at the edge of the room, watching several young couples dance. He'd been invited by Stephen Hammond, an acquaintance he'd met in London, to a party in Bath, and though Carlisle didn't dare dance with anyone for fear of their noticing the chilliness of his hands, he was having a pleasant time conversing with the other guests. Most were the sort of people he never could have imagined speaking to when he'd been a young man growing up in England: people who came to Bath were, as a rule, people of some means, and he was sure that every lady's dress he saw cost more than everything he and his father had owned when he'd been alive. The house of the gentleman who was hosting the party was also impressive; though modest by the modern standards of Bath, to Carlisle, it was a mansion.

On the other side of the room, Carlisle spotted a young woman he'd been introduced to earlier. Stephen was off dancing with the lady's sister, so Carlisle decided that it wouldn't seem odd to speak with her while she watched the dancers—having never mixed in this sort of society before, he kept asking himself what would be deemed polite and what might be considered an affront. However, other young people were talking together, and since he knew he appeared to be about the same age as the young woman, he didn't think it would seem strange to speak with her.

"Are you enjoying the party, Miss Austen?" Carlisle asked politely, quickly thinking of other polite topics of conversation he could raise.

"Very much so, Mr. Cullen," Miss Austen said. "People always seem to reveal a great deal about themselves when they dance, or failing that, a great deal about how they feel about their partners."

"Dancing does allow young men and women a chance to socialize more closely than they normally would," Carlisle offered; having never danced with anyone himself, he had no idea what it was really like. He could only speak from what he'd observed.

Miss Austen smiled. "That's certainly true, but what interests me is how each person's demeanor changes, depending on who they're dancing with. It's very subtle in some people; for the sake of politeness, one tries to muster the appropriate amount enthusiasm for dance and partner. But in some people, it's clear when they favor a certain partner over all others."

Carlisle nodded. "I hadn't thought of it that way, but I suppose you're right. Young people who are engaged to be married or interested in becoming engaged would always rather dance with each other than with anyone else."

"True, unless they're having a quarrel, and one party wishes to inspire envy in the other," Miss Austen said thoughtfully. "Similarly, young men and women at their first dance will almost invariably dance happily with any partner, as will women of a certain age, or aged people who are simply happy to be included in such things. People with children like watching the young people socialize and discussing who might marry who, and even rather curmudgeonly people probably appreciate dances, if only because such events give them something to complain about."

Carlisle chuckled. "That's true. I suppose that a dance has something to offer almost everyone who might attend."

"Exactly. I think that everyone enjoys a dance for slightly different reasons," Miss Austen said. "The trick is figuring out who is interested in what. I always find that to be a most excellent puzzle."

Carlisle glanced at the young woman beside him. "You've certainly given this a lot of thought."

Miss Austen smiled a bit. "Well, I suppose _my_ favorite part of dances is trying to deduce who is fond of who and who is interested in what. A dance is a wonderful time to watch people, both as they really are and as they wish to be perceived."

"I suppose my interest in this dance is the same as yours then," Carlisle said with a smile. "I'll be returning to America soon, and I shall miss the new friends I've made here, but given that I'll be leaving soon, it seems better to be a spectator than a participant in a dance."

Miss Austen gave him a sidelong look. "That's kind of you, Mr. Cullen. Quite a few young ladies seem disappointed that you do not dance, but if you're to return to America shortly, then it's better they not get their hopes up. Many men have no scruples about inspiring false hopes in dance partners." Suddenly, she blushed slightly. "Forgive me. It's rude of me to speak so forwardly."

"That's quite all right, since you were only speaking of men in general, and it's true that many do take young ladies' feelings too lightly," Carlisle said with a smile, though he wondered if the young woman beside him had really been generalizing, or if she hadn't had someone specific in mind. "In truth, I've heard several women with daughters of marriageable age asking my friend all about me as inconspicuously as they can."

"Clearly, they haven't been inconspicuous enough if you've noticed their investigations," Miss Austen said, smiling again as her embarrassment apparently passed. "When we were introduced, you said you were a physician, Mr. Cullen—or should I call you 'doctor'?"

"Currently, I'm still training in medicine, so 'mister' is fine," Carlisle said.

"And you are from London?"

"Yes, though I haven't lived there in some time," Carlisle said. "I left for America years ago, and I only came back for this visit at the urging of an old friend. To be frank, I came here to visit my father's grave."

"I'm very sorry for your loss then," Miss Austen said quietly.

"Thank you, but he died a long time ago," Carlisle said, trying not to wince at the half-truths he always had to utter in conversations like this. "I was little more than a boy when I left for America, and even when we shared a home, I confess that I never knew him very well. I've heard that your father is a man of the church, Miss Austen."

"Yes, he is," the young woman said, smiling fondly at the thought of her father.

"Mine was as well, though perhaps more strict than most," Carlisle said, frowning slightly at the memory. "Of course, if it weren't for our differences in temperament, I might never have made medicine my calling."

"Good doctors are needed everywhere, though from what I've read, America is an especially perilous place," Miss Austen said. "I suppose you've grown used to it, but it must be thrilling to live on the edge of such a vast wilderness."

Carlisle smiled at the thought of the hunting trips he'd made into the interior of North America. "One must be careful when venturing into the wilderness, and I confess that I prefer city life to life in the country, but what few walks I've taken in the forests of New York and Pennsylvania have been beautiful. Of course, one must keep an eye out for wild animals."

"I confess that if I were to encounter anything much fiercer than a deer, I should not know how to react," Miss Austen said with a smile. "Do you hunt, Mr. Cullen?"

Carlisle stifled a laugh. "I do. I find that doing so is the most reliable way of knowing what I'll be having for dinner in any given week."

"There are deer in America then?" she asked. "I remember when I was a child, my sister and I would sometimes invent fantastical creatures and speculate that the Americas must have similar beasts."

"I have seen things far stranger than deer in America," Carlisle said thoughtfully. "There are beautiful birds and huge cats and other odd animals, though I haven't dared dine on some of them yet."

Miss Austen laughed. "It sounds very adventurous. I've met many people here in Bath who have traveled extensively, but I confess that hearing such stories only makes me eager to go home and write about them. Outside of my own mind, I'm not much of a traveler."

"You keep a diary then, Miss Austen?"

"Yes, you could say that," Miss Austen said with a smile. "Excuse me, but it looks as though my sister is finished dancing for the moment. It was very nice talking with you, Mr. Cullen."

"Likewise, Miss Austen," Carlisle said, bowing to her as she curtsied. He had wondered initially why she hadn't seemed nervous talking with him—no other young woman in the room had dared to approach him yet—but now he decided that the lady herself had provided an explanation. She hadn't spoken with him because she considered him a potential suitor; she was simply fascinated by people of all kinds, and the fact that he was a bit unusual did not repel her as it did most people. As with his friend Stephen, with whom he'd become acquainted after a long conversation in a book shop, Miss Austen had simply been curious to speak with someone who seemed interesting. She seemed a very pleasant, intelligent young woman, yet the human men around her seemed to barely notice her presence as she moved toward her sister, Miss Cassandra.

_Someday, I hope that men will value a woman's mind and personality as much as her looks and fortune,_ Carlisle thought. _And if I ever do elect to dance with a young woman, I believe she will have to be someone like Miss Austen._


	16. 1812

Hi everyone! After another long delay (but not as long as the last one, maybe?), here's another chapter of "Stregoni." Here, I explore Carlisle's work as a doctor a bit more than usual; for information on medicine in the 19th century, you can visit a site called "Jane Austen's World," which is what I used while researching this chapter. Thanks as always for your reviews and your patience, and I'll see you again soon! :)

Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer is the author of "Twilight," and you know how Cassandra Clare and other authors have gotten together to create a series of stories about Magnus Bane? I really wish that Stephenie Meyer would do that for Carlisle…:)

_1812: The Second American Revolution_

Carlisle sighed as he wrapped a scarf around his neck, pretending that he felt the chilly wind that was blowing through Harrisburg. It was a cool fall day, and since June, America had been at war with Great Britain, _again_. Carlisle had just visited his native land a few years before, and he hated to think of any of his British or American friends killing each other.

_Garrett must be happy_, _wherever he is_, Carlisle thought grimly. The British had recently taken Ft. Mackinac, and Carlisle wondered if his friend the revolutionary had headed up toward Canada to meet the British invasion forces.

When he'd been human, Carlisle had been chilled by the thought of how many people had died in all the wars that had ever been. The Bible was full of tales of great battles and righteous causes, but Carlisle had wondered even as a young man if truly just wars were a thing of the Old Testament. Modern wars seemed to be based primarily in economic concerns, and though he'd supported the first American Revolution, the second only made him mourn the loss of so much life.

_It would seem ironic, if I could discuss it with a human soldier, that I should hate war so much when I'm hardly likely to lose my own life in one,_ Carlisle thought grimly. _But being immortal has let me see just how fleeting human life really is, and how terrible it is to waste precious lives on a cause that will be so quickly forgotten, replaced by another war in a few years time. Why do humans do it? Are they so desperate for their lives to have meaning that they'd throw them away for a cause like this war, which will take so much from ordinary people and render so little in return?_

Carlisle had almost reached home when he heard someone (no, two people) running after him. There was a nasty cold going around, as often seemed to happen in times of damp, cool weather, and Carlisle had been to several houses to minister to the sick. Though he brought various treatments to people laid low by a cold, contrary to what some doctors claimed, there were no "cures" for the illness. An herbal infusion or decoction might help, as could plasters and poultices, oils, ointments, and electuaries, but after administering such things to patients (and very often, the women of the family had prepared their own recipes for remedies already), the best thing for a cold was rest. (Many people often cited the phrase "starve a fever, feed a cold" and asked for additional food while ill, but Carlisle could neither could confirm or deny the efficacy of such a treatment. It was a popular proverb, but not always an accurate one.)

"Sir?" someone called suddenly. Carlisle turned and found that the 'someone' was actually two children, both of them looking very nervous.

"Yes?" Carlisle said, trying to sound friendly but knowing that he probably sounded abrupt; physically, he never tired, but mentally, he was drained and eager to go home and curl up with a good book. "Can I help you?"

"You—you're the doctor, aren't you?" a small girl said, holding onto her little brother's hand. "Dr. Cullen?"

"I am," Carlisle said.

"Our mother said to come get you 'cause our brother fell off the roof while he was fixing it," the girl said in a rush. "He fell in some hay but he landed on his arm and now it's all twisted and broke!"

"Oh dear," Carlisle murmured. "Come on then, you'd better show me the way."

The two children turned and ran back down the road, and Carlisle followed them, careful to move at a human pace. He hoped that the arm wasn't badly broken—if the bones had been shattered into several pieces, then amputation might be necessary, or the boy could die of infection. Carlisle hoped that the break was a simple one, and that the boy had already passed out from pain and shock. Setting broken bones was an unpleasant business; Carlisle hated the pain that it caused his patients, and he knew that the people he was forced to inflict pain on hated it even more. At least it was a broken arm—broken arms tended to be easier to fix than broken legs.

The house that the two children called home was a small, tidy place near the edge of town with a garden and a small wooden fence to keep out wild animals. The family had a cow, whose hay the older brother had apparently fallen into while fixing a still visible hole in the roof, and chickens gave Carlisle a wide berth as he followed the two children inside. There, a boy was lying in a narrow bed, his face pale and sweaty, bruises already visible on his broken arm. His mother stood beside him, draping a damp cloth over his head and looking worried, though she gave Carlisle a small smile of thanks when he entered the room.

_Well, at least I can't see bone_, Carlisle thought, kneeling down to have a better look at the injury.

It turned out to be a simple fracture, easily fixed. His senses were better than those of human doctors, and though the boy stirred unhappily at his examination, Carlisle was able to feel that there were no shards of bone lurking beneath the skin. He was sure that it was a painful injury, but one that would heal just fine in time. Gripping the boy's arm in both hands, Carlisle carefully stretched the muscles of the arm, which had contracted when the bone had broken, and though the boy cried out, Carlisle was able to quickly push the bone back into place, and then he wrapped it carefully and put it in a sling before leaning back to survey his work.

"It should be fine now," Carlisle said, smiling at the woman. "You'll want to keep him off the roof for a few weeks, but after some rest, he'll be all right."

"Thank you," the woman said, her voice trembling a little. She glanced around her humble house, and Carlisle guessed that she was trying to decide what to give him as payment for his services. "I—I'm afraid we don't have any money to pay you with though. My husband just left with the army, so we—"

"That's all right," Carlisle said quickly. "Don't concern yourself with payment. I just hope your son feels better soon."

The woman nodded nervously at Carlisle, then turned back to the still unconscious boy and draped another cool cloth over his forehead. As he left the house, Carlisle was surprised to find that the little girl and her brother were following him.

"Thank you for coming to help our brother," the girl said, then glanced back inside to make sure her mother wasn't listening. "I didn't think you were nice, but you are. I'm sorry for thinking bad things about you before I even met you."

"That's all right," Carlisle said, somewhat surprised. "Why were you thinking bad things though?"

The girl frowned and stared at the ground as she pushed her foot around in circles in the dirt. "Other kids say...that you're strange. Our neighbor told us when we moved here that you were a bit odd, 'cause you're so pale and no one ever sees you when it's light outside."

Carlisle cursed internally at that—clearly, he'd been living here for too long if the residents of Harrisburg had noticed that.

"People say you're spooky," the little boy added solemnly.

"Yes, I've heard that too," Carlisle said easily, thinking all the while that he would have to pack when he got home and figure out a suitable place to move to next; clearly, a bigger town than Harrisburg would be a prudent choice for his next place of residence. "But I'm not so different, really. I just like to keep to myself. People like me are often looked on as strange, whether there's really something strange about us or not."

The children nodded, still looking slightly skeptical, but the girl smiled at him a little before she went chasing after a chicken. Her brother ran after her, and Carlisle turned away from the house, wondering as he headed toward home again if the human world would always be at war, and if his presence among mortals would always be like this, one of solitude and secrecy…but one of hope too. _There will be wars after this one, certainly, and perhaps I'll remain alone for centuries. But the nice thing about being immortal_, Carlisle told himself, _is that it's possible that I'll live long enough to see the end of war, and that someday, I'll have someone to share this life with. Someday…_


	17. 1827

Hi everyone! Sorry for yet another long delay between chapters, but I've got a nice long story for you today. (And it takes place a little after the 4th of July, so that's a fun coincidence. :)) Here, Carlisle enjoys a fairly normal day at work, then attends a play in the evening, where he encounters an unusual couple. Thanks as always for your reviews and your patience, and I'll see you again soon!

Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer is the author of "Twilight," and fun fact: the Shakespearean actor Junius Brutus Booth, who is mentioned below, was the father of John Wilkes Booth. (I just finished a book called "How Shakespeare Changed Everything," so I was happy that I got to include Junius here, since he was becoming famous during this period. :))

_1827: Richard III_

It was summer in Baltimore, and Carlisle was looking forward to an uneventful day followed by a pleasant evening at the theater. First though, he had to remove a man's infected tooth.

"All right," he told the grocer soothingly, a man named James Hynes, who'd been to see him before for a swollen ankle (badly sprained, as it turned out, not broken). "I've got it now. Just hold still, and—"

Carlisle yanked the tooth out, then quickly handed Hynes a cloth to staunch the flow of blood. The man yelped, clearly pained and surprised in equal measure by the quickness of the extraction, but after closing his eyes and taking a few deeps breaths, he relaxed.

"Thanks, doc," he said around the cloth.

"I wouldn't talk for a few minutes," Carlisle advised. "Let the socket clot, and remember not to worry it with your tongue when you leave. Keep a bit of clean cloth there for a day or so, and it should heal fine. Now, would you like to read the paper while you wait?"

The man shook his head. "Can't read very well these days," he said carefully, his voice muffled by the fact that he was trying to move his tongue and the cloth he held as little as possible. "Probably need glasses. My son has to read the news to me."

"I can read it to you, if you'd like," Carlisle offered.

The man nodded. "Thanks."

So Carlisle read the paper aloud for a bit, choosing stories that he thought might interest Hynes. Though it had been thirteen years, the city still showed signs of the damage that had been done during the Battle of Baltimore, and there was a story about some shops that had been rebuilt since the construction of the National Road, which was helping to make Baltimore a major center of shipping and manufacturing. Then there was a story about the strange coincidence that had happened the year before, when Thomas Jefferson and James Adams had died within hours of each other on Independence Day.

Then he read a bit about the weather they'd had recently, what Congress was up to, and the arrival in Baltimore of Junius Brutus Booth, who Carlisle would see star in "Richard III" that night. (Carlisle rather liked "Richard III" as far as Shakespearean ghost stories went, since unlike "Hamlet," it didn't remind him of his father.) Booth was from England originally, but he'd toured in the United States before, and was now considered the foremost rival of the great actor Edmund Kean, who Carlisle had also seen perform. Hynes seemed especially interested in this story; Shakespeare's continued popularity surprised Carlisle at times, given that the man had lived and died over two hundred years before. Yet his plays were still beloved by people of all ages, and classes, the world over.

"Okay, it should be all right by now," Carlisle said at last, checking his watch. "How does it feel?"

"Feels fine, all things considered. Thanks again, Dr. Cullen," Hynes said, nodding gratefully at Carlisle as he took the bloody cloth out of his mouth. "Usually, I go to my barber when I need a tooth pulled, but he's getting on in years—eyesight's even worse than mine—and last time I went to him, he pulled the wrong one!"

"Sorry to hear that," Carlisle said, grateful that he never had to worry about dentistry himself. He missed many things about being mortal, but needing to have teeth pulled was not one of them.

"Well, it doesn't help that he's as slow as molasses in January either," Hynes said. "Not like you—I'm going to recommend you to all my friends now. You pulled that thing so quick that I hardly felt it!"

"Thank you, and I'm glad it wasn't painful," Carlisle said with a smile. "Remember to keep a bit of cloth in that socket for a day or so, all right?"

"Will do," Hynes promised, pulling a worn handkerchief out of his pocket and tearing off a small strip. "Going to "Richard III" tonight?"

"Yes, I'm interested to see if Booth is really as good as Kean," Carlisle said.

"Ever see him do Hamlet?"

"I have," Carlisle said, shaking his head, "though I was just thinking that I preferred "Richard III" to "Hamlet."

"Ah, Kean's a master though!" Hynes exclaimed. "For days after that, my kids wouldn't stop parading around the house as Hamlet and Ophelia, pretending to die horrible deaths. My wife thinks it's all a bit morbid, but I love the theater, and when Kean had his big death scene as Hamlet, there wasn't a dry eye in the house."

"Tonight will be different in that respect, I think," Carlisle said with a smile. "Richard III isn't nearly as sympathetic as Hamlet."

"Ha, ha, you're right about that!" Hynes said, handing Carlisle his fee and heading for the door. "But you know, in plays I'd rather watch an interesting devil than some dull angel. Thanks again, doc. Maybe I'll see you tonight!"

"I'll keep an eye out for you," Carlisle said. "Have a good day, Mr. Hynes."

After tidying up the room that he used for examinations, Carlisle greeted his next patient, a young woman with a pain in her ribs. (She was pregnant, and friends had told her that babies sometimes broke their mother's ribs in the womb—Carlisle thought that this phenomenon must be very rare, but pain in the ribs wasn't uncommon near the end of a pregnancy.) Next, he extracted a piece of wood from the arm of a man who'd been injured in an accident down at the docks, treated a young maid whose hand had been burned on a hot iron, set a carpenter's broken leg, dealt with several bad head colds (it seemed that one small boy must have infected his whole neighborhood with the same virulent malady), and after saying goodbye to a widow who'd come to him for help with her headaches, the work day was done.

At last, it was time for the play. Carlisle changed into nicer clothes for the performance, then walked to the theater a few blocks from his home. He saw Hynes there with his wife and children, and they exchanged polite greetings before heading inside.

Before the door to the theater had even been opened, Carlisle could smell it: there was another vampire already there. He wasn't terribly surprised—Baltimore was big enough to support two different covens, and he knew that there were nomads in the area too. He often encountered vampires when he attended the theater—sometimes they said hello, but usually, they simply ignored each other.

Carlisle understood why immortals tended to avoid each other under such circumstances: the theater was one of the few places where a vampire might be inconspicuous. As part of an audience, one could go unnoticed, and perhaps even better, one could forget oneself in the midst of the drama of a play. Carlisle thought he liked that best about the theater: those brief moments when, at the height of the action, he could forget who he was, and all that divided him from humanity, and instead share in a communal feeling of concern for the characters moving across the stage.

As he sat down, Carlisle kept an eye out for the other vampire. In the end though, it was his scent that finally told Carlisle where the other immortal was sitting: there, on the right side of the theater, close to the stage. Beside him was a woman, a young human woman...and they were holding hands.

Carlisle started a little when he saw that, though the movement was so slight that he guessed none of the humans around him even noticed.

_Is it possible that she's more to him than a meal?_ Carlisle wondered._ I can't see their expressions, but in spite of the chill she must feel from his hand, she wants to be close to him. Could she love him? Could she really care for him, in spite of what he is? Or is she unaware of his true nature?_

As the play commenced, Carlisle allowed himself to be swept up in the story. Booth, as hoped, was phenomenal as the title character, and though Carlisle was deeply engrossed in the play, between acts, he couldn't help but keep glancing toward the lady and the vampire. _Richard III, though barbaric, is a captivating figure_, Carlisle mused,_ and vampires must hold a similar appeal for humans. Certainly, both vampires and the mad king are dangerous and in many ways repellent, but both are compelling as well, thanks to the very air of danger we project_...

After the play, Carlisle tried to keep his eyes away from the strange couple. He didn't look at them as he left the theater, but he waited in an alley for them to come out, and then he followed their scents as they strolled through the city. He knew that he was probably making a mistake; at best, he was intruding on two people's privacy, and at worst, he was following a predator with his prey.

Carlisle knew that vampires were, at that very moment, hunting in every great city in the world, and he couldn't very well stop them all. But he wanted to stop this one, if he could. The way that the vampire kept his arm around the woman chilled him...but it gave him a faint feeling of hope too. What if love could overcome death, overcome appetite?

The wind changed then, and the other vampire, finally catching Carlisle's scent, picked up the woman beside him and ran. Cursing, Carlisle pursued them across rooftops, down dark alleys, and through the quieter streets of Baltimore. The other vampire was avoiding well-lit areas. That was good—there were still people on the street, and since he and Carlisle were both keeping to the shadows, it was clear that in spite of his very public appearance at the theater, the vampire that Carlisle pursued did not want to be caught. This was to Carlisle's advantage—if only he could get the woman away from him, get her to a crowded place where she would be seen, then her captor would be forced to leave her be...but for how long? Would he simply pursue her again the instant she was alone?

It was just when that unpleasant thought occurred to Carlisle that he lost their scent. They were close to the bay by then, and Carlisle had lost sight of them when the vampire had slipped into the cellar of a building. Carlisle followed them, but when he got outside again, they were gone—had they disappeared into the water? Carlisle followed his nose—yes, the trailed dead-ended at the bay, and now the smell of saltwater, goods being packed into ships and unpacked onto carts, animals and humans and garbage all filled his nose, while the scent of the other vampire had become terribly faint.

Carlisle paused, torn about what to do next. Should he retrace his steps? Take a swim himself and see if he could find them? He couldn't see anyone swimming in the bay, but they could be underwater—how long could the human woman hold her breath? Was the vampire carrying the woman a captor or a lover, and if he was the latter, wouldn't they reappear? The vampire would come up to let her breathe—but if he wasn't planning to kill her, then why had he run in the first place? Had he worried that another vampire wouldn't understand, might try to hurt his lady love? Where could they—

The wind changed again, blowing in from the sea now, which was why it took Carlisle a second to notice the new smell: blood. Human blood. Lots of it.

And then Carlisle heard something falling from the roof behind him. Carlisle turned in time to catch the woman before she hit the street—she was terribly pale, and the side of her throat had been ripped away, though judging by the sluggish way blood still poured from her, she had little left to lose. Carlisle knew immediately that he could do nothing—she would be dead in seconds. Taking her hand, he smoothed back her hair and looked down at her.

"...so beautiful," she whispered. Then she blinked once, and didn't stir again. Carlisle, gently lowering her eyelids, looked up, searching for the vampire who had dropped her, but he was probably long gone. In the few seconds that it had taken the young woman to bleed out after he'd finished feeding, her killer could have made his way across town. Carlisle could follow his scent, but there was no point now. He'd been too late.

Instead of pursuing the vampire, Carlisle carried the woman through Baltimore, keeping to the shadows. He wondered where the vampire who had killed her had gone. He wondered if the faint scent on the woman's clothes might lead him to her home, might allow him to return her body to her family. Just then, a scrap of paper fluttered out of the woman's dress. Carlisle stared down at it: there were words hastily scrawled on the paper, written not in ink, but in what could only be blood:

_"And therefore, — since I cannot prove a lover,  
>To entertain these fair well-spoken days, —<br>I am determined to prove a villain,  
>And hate the idle pleasures of these days."<em>

"Richard III," Carlisle murmured, his eyes moving from the paper in his hand to the woman in his arms. He wondered if, someday, he too would be like that famous villain, like the vampire who had killed tonight. He too remembered a passage from the play:

_"I shall despair. There is no creature loves me,  
>And if I die no soul will pity me.<br>And wherefore should they, since that I myself  
>Find in myself no pity to myself?"<em>

But Carlisle couldn't despair—not tonight. Tonight, this woman had become his responsibility. And though he'd never killed a fellow vampire before—he had vowed to never kill any human _or _vampire—if he ever again met the creature whose victim he was tending to tonight, Carlisle knew he would be sorely tempted to break his vow...


	18. 1832

Hi everyone! Sorry this chapter took so long to materialize: I had a little trouble getting into it at first, but then one day I thought, "naked Carlisle," and suddenly I was much more interested in writing this. :) Though Carlisle does take what might seem like an uncharacteristic risk in this chapter, I feel like the ends might justify the means for him in this case, especially since, given his disguise, the humans who saw him wouldn't have recognized him later if they'd seen him without his...ahem, outfit. (You'll see what I mean.)

Also, please note that after I finish "Eternity" in a few weeks, you can expect more regular updates of "Stregoni," though be warned that this story is only going to last for about ten more chapters, and the ending I have planned is not particularly happy. It does, however, offer an explanation for Carlisle's depression and eagerness for a companion at the time he changed Edward. Thanks for your reviews, and your considerable patience, and I'll see you again soon!

_1832: The Black Hawk War_

Carlisle was underwater when he first heard the sounds of U.S. soldiers and natives moving towards each other through the forest. The natives had crossed the Mississippi River some weeks ago, and Carlisle had read about their movements in the newspapers before taking a hunting trip to the area. He had hoped to avoid getting too close to any of the sporadic battles that sprang up between U.S. forces and natives trying to reclaim some of their former territory, much of it uninhabited at the moment; clearly, he'd been unsuccessful.

_That land won't stay unclaimed for long,_ Carlisle had thought when he'd read an article about one of their leaders, Black Hawk, back in his office in Boston. Though the papers were by no means sympathetic to his cause, when he read between the lines, Carlisle could see that Black Hawk and his forces were doing something rather similar to what Americans had done in the Revolutionary War: tired of a foreign power interfering in their business, the natives were fighting back against that unwelcome influence. (However, the irony of the situation seemed to be lost on most American journalists.)

Carlisle had lived in America for most of the past century, and much as he hated the prospect of violence, he felt that Black Hawk had a point in trying to take back some of what had once been his people's land. The slow westward migration of Americans was like water over stone—at times, it wasn't particularly forceful, but it would wear away everything eventually. In another century or two, the whole continent would be taken from the natives, and perhaps even now, the Black Hawk War, as it was called by some, was only a futile gesture that would accomplish nothing in the long run.

It might be useless for the natives to resist the inevitable tide of foreign incursion (and the foreign diseases that had made Americans able to colonize these lands so quickly). Furthermore, Carlisle knew that he alone couldn't stop the conflict between the natives and the American settlers. But if he could prevent just one battle between them, prevent a few dozen casualties...well, that would be better than nothing.

That was Carlisle's first thought as he surfaced from the creek he'd been swimming in when he'd heard the sounds of two armies about to converge. His second thought was that he was going to ruin a perfectly good pair of pants if he followed through on the idea he had in mind, but since it could very well save lives, it seemed worth the sacrifice. Stepping out of the water, Carlisle pulled on the soon-to-be-destroyed trousers, tossed the rest of his clothing over the bough of a tree, then raced along the edge of the creek until he found the small mound of earth he was looking for.

Before deciding to take a swim, Carlisle had hunted, and now he quickly uncovered the deer carcass he'd buried a little over an hour before. Though almost entirely drained of blood, it was still warm, and as Carlisle pulled the remains out of the dirt and began to remove the deer's hide, he listened carefully. The approaching humans were still about a mile or two apart, so he knew he had time, but only a few minutes at most. After stripping off the skin, he removed the deer's organs and simply draped them around himself like a macabre sort of shawl, even leaving a bit of intestine hanging over the top of his head, thus obscuring his face.

_I'm going to need another swim after this,_ Carlisle thought, guessing that for someone who wasn't a vampire, the smell of blood and entrails would be quit sickening. Appearing like this in front of humans was a risk, but only a very small one. It was doubtful that anyone who saw him would even consider the possibility that he was a vampire. No, any human who saw him today would most likely assume that he was some sort of vengeful spirit haunting the woods.

It often seemed that every town, village, road, and forest in America was haunted by some ghost or other. Tales of the specters of fallen soldiers, vengeful natives, women who had been wronged and left for dead, children who had taken ill and died as so many did were common in every state in the union and the territories beyond. It sometimes seemed that there were as many ghost stories as there were humans who had perished under tragic or violent circumstances. Anyone who claimed that they'd seen a bloody ghost haunting these woods might be harangued and kidded by those they told, but even in 18th century America, there were still more believers than skeptics when it came to ghosts.

_All right, so what do I know about ghost stories? _Carlisle thought, running toward the closest group of humans. _Ghosts are said to disappear and reappear with terrifying randomness, their figures are often marred by some sort of gore, supposedly indicative of how they died, and they're often mute. I think I can manage that._

As it turned out, pretending to be a ghost was quite straightforward, for a vampire anyway. Carlisle silently approached the group of American soldiers marching through the woods before hopping up a tree and then dropping to the ground in front of them.

"What the hell?!" the man at the front of the company shouted, but Carlisle had already vanished by the time he'd finished speaking. He moved so quickly that he stood first on the west side, then on the east side of the small band of soldiers for little over a second—most didn't even have time to react before he'd moved on. He lurked in the trees for a few moments while the men, raising their guns, started shouting at each other.

"That was a damn ghost, Grady!"

"The hell it was—you're seein' things!"

"What do you mean? It was right there a moment ago!"

"I saw it too!"

"It's just some native trickery, is what it is."

"Really? You ever see a blond native?"

"I weren't lookin' at his hair, I was lookin' at the guts all over him!"

"There it is again!"

Carlisle reappeared a few hundred paces ahead of the company, then shot forward until he was standing just a few yards ahead of the man at the head of the column. Another vampire would have seen his legs move, but to the humans in front of him, it looked like he'd simply moved from one spot to the other in less than the blink of an eye. The men jumped back, clearly terrified of what he might do to them. Carlisle, deciding that the men were sufficiently frightened for the moment, jumped up into a tree so fast that to his horrified spectators, it looked as though he'd vanished into thin air.

"Okay," the man in front said, his voice low and tense. "Let's go back to camp for now and decide on a different route. We know which way the natives are going to be heading—we'll intercept them after we take a good look at the map."

"Yeah," one of the men muttered. "A _long_ look."

From his perch high above the soldiers, Carlisle smiled, then threw himself from tree to tree until he found the band of natives who were still heading for the woods where the American soldiers were beating a hasty retreat. He was familiar with the basics of several languages native to the territories, and after listening to the men below him speak for a few moments, he felt confident that he'd understand enough to know if they planned to retreat or not. (Judging by the reactions of the American soldiers, when faced with someone draped in bloody entrails, most people would retreat.)

This was, Carlisle knew, something that he could never do again. A trick like this might amuse the Volturi more than anger them, but Carlisle didn't like to take the risk—he wouldn't have today, if he hadn't known that the converging armies would have slaughtered each other if they'd actually met. But from a less practical, cautious standpoint, Carlisle had to admit that he was rather exhilarated to be doing something he almost never did: acting like a vampire in front of humans. Though he derived no pleasure from frightening people, as always, it was satisfying to use his heightened strength, speed, and senses to save lives, though in this case, he was doing so in a rather roundabout fashion.

Tricking the second group of humans proved just as easy as the first. Though one of the natives actually got off a shot from his bow, Carlisle easily dodged the arrow, and no one fired again after that—they knew that even if they did, they wouldn't be able to hit him. After circling them several times, looking bloody and menacing, Carlisle retreated and listened to the men talk. Though he only understood about three words in five, he could tell from that much that, like their opponents, they saw the wisdom of a strategic retreat.

As they disappeared into the forest, one man looked back, either afraid or perhaps even hopeful that he'd see Carlisle again. Men from both groups were going to tell stories about what they'd seen today for the rest of their lives, and while Carlisle knew that he had only stopped one battle in their war for one day, or even for only a few hours, he was glad that he'd been able to do that much. But as he removed the deer innards from his hair, Carlisle guessed that the men who'd seen him today, if they survived the Black Hawk War, would be having nightmares for some time about the strange figure dripping with gore...


	19. 1846

Hi everyone! Once again, sorry that this update took so long, but...being late is pretty much my superpower at this point. (I can be on time for work, but that's about it.) At least this chapter turned out nice and long though. :)

This chapter focuses on Carlisle trying to help a newborn extricate his human family from a particularly difficult situation, and how they attempt to cover their tracks. Thanks for your reviews and your truly phenomenal patience, and I will see you again soon! (Now that I've finally wrapped up _Eternity_, I think that's actually true—I'm hoping to update this fic at least once a month, though there are less than ten chapters left...)

Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer, not I, is the author of Twilight.

_1846: _A Free Family

Carlisle was walking home to his little cottage in the woods, a library book under his arm, when he smelled it. It was just after dark, and the woods and fields were heavy with the scent of recent rain and growing things. But above it all, a faint taste of vampire on the breeze was unmistakable. Carlisle kept walking—it was only one vampire after all, no one he recognized, but still: if someone wanted to ambush him, they would have taken more care to stay downwind.

Besides, he was always interested in speaking to his own kind; he often went weeks, even months without detecting a trace of another vampire, and he might go even longer without speaking to one. Usually, the conversations he did have were very short, and usually involved the other vampire threatening to kill him if he set foot in their territory again. Still, a terse chat like that was preferable to total solitude, and Carlisle wondered what tonight's visitor might want to discuss.

Carlisle found the vampire he'd smelled standing just outside his cottage, looking up the road as he waited for Carlisle to approach. Though he was pale in death, Carlisle could see that his skin had once been dark, and his eyes were bright red, but his expression seemed more uneasy than fierce.

"Excuse me," the man said, then stopped. "Are you..."

"I'm like you, if that's what you were going to ask," Carlisle said gently. "My eyes sometimes puzzle people."

The man nodded. "Yes. They're...why aren't they red? Don't we all have red eyes?"

"Not all of us," Carlisle said. "Our eyes reflect...what we drink."

The man flinched a little at that. "You don't...drink blood?"

"Animal blood," Carlisle said. "Not human."

The man considered him for a moment, then nodded slowly, his expression crestfallen. "I didn't know...ever since this happened to me, I've been..."

"Why don't you sit down?" Carlisle said gently, motioning to the chair he kept in front of the cottage—weather permitting, he liked to read outside most nights. He slipped into the house and carried another chair outside, then sat down himself as the other man collapsed into his seat, his expression haunted.

"I was alone after it happened too," Carlisle said, after several moments of silence. "No one explained things to me for some time, and it's hard that way. Whatever's happened...I'm sure you've done your best."

"I was so...thirsty," the man said at last. "...and angry. Angry at the one who killed me, but...even more angry at the people who sold me, and owned me. Who let me die in such a way...and who still have my family. So...I found them. Some of them. In their houses in town. The people who sell slaves, who get rich on our suffering. Then...the overseer, on my first plantation. I couldn't believe he was still alive, couldn't believe he could still exist...to hurt people...but then what am I now? If I can kill them so easily...drink their...their _blood_...they were monsters...but what am I if I can_ kill them?_"

"I don't know," Carlisle said quietly. "My name's Carlisle Cullen. What's yours?"

"...Timothy," the man said at last. "Timothy Jones."

"Mr. Jones, I don't know you," Carlisle said gently. "And I've always tried not to hate people—to forgive them. But I've lived a long time, and I know that my suffering is nothing compared to what slaves have to endure. My life has been lonely, but at least it's been my own. And if I were you...I think I would hate the men you've killed too. I won't tell you that killing is the right thing to do, but in their case...well, I can't bring myself to tell you that it was wrong either."

Timothy, who'd been sitting with his head bowed, finally raised it to look at Carlisle. He smiled sadly.

"I suppose that's the Christian way to look at it, Mr. Cullen."

"Just Carlisle, please," Carlisle said, smiling. "We're both dead. I don't see any reason to be formal."

Timothy smiled. "Carlisle, then. I've never talked with a white man like this."

Carlisle chuckled grimly. "I think that one advantage of dying is...well, it brings us together. The differences that matter to humans don't matter to us."

"You're the first one I've spoken to," Timothy explained. "The other...when he found me, I was already bleeding. Maybe even dying—he just...sped things up, I suppose."

"I'm sorry," Carlisle said quietly. "I understand that it usually doesn't happen that way. I was changed by accident too, but most of our kind choose to turn specific humans. It's very difficult, apparently, to stop feeding and let the change happen."

Timothy nodded. "I think it would be impossible to stop."

They were both silent for a few moments. Carlisle thought of the sonnets, symphonies, and countless books that could be written on the subject of a vampire's thirst, and the myriad emotions it inspired. He wondered how many such things had been written, and maybe even published, unbeknownst to humans.

"I'm sorry," Timothy said at last. "In life, I wasn't such a morbid guest."

"Well, I wasn't such a morbid host. And in spite of our topic of conversation, it's always nice to meet someone new," Carlisle said, smiling at the thought of a new friend. "Many of our kind are...rather territorial. They defend their hunting grounds jealously, and you'll need to be careful not to draw attention to yourself when you hunt."

Timothy frowned. "I'd heard stories of creatures like us before. But I never really believed it, and you're the first I've met since...since the one who caught me. I know what the sunlight does to our skin, and for my family's sake, I've not wanted to get caught, but what about others like us? What makes them live so secretly?"

"A sort of family, though I hesitate to call them that," Carlisle said slowly. "They live in Europe, in an ancient town in Italy, and they're called the Volturi. They're careful to make sure that our kind aren't noticed by humans. If they knew we existed, it could make hunting more difficult, for one thing. When I was young—and alive—many people still believed in vampires. Though they couldn't kill us, they could cause a great deal of trouble by burning us out of our homes. The only way we can truly die is if we're ripped apart and the pieces are burned, but fire still isn't something to take lightly."

Timothy's eyes widened. "I suppose it doesn't surprise me that we can be killed—in stories, there's always some way to defeat a monster. And I suppose there might not be any living people left at all if there were too many of us."

"That's something else that the Volturi keep an eye on," Carlisle explained. "To the best of my knowledge, there are only a few thousand of us in this world. Territories are jealously guarded by their covens, and too many of us...well, if there's too much competition, or if one of our kind hunts too conspicuously, the Volturi destroy them. I don't agree with their methods, but I can't deny that they seem necessary to our continued existence."

Timothy nodded and was silent for a few moments. Carlisle sympathized—it was a lot to process, and though Carlisle had had two hundred years to adjust to this new life, it was still strange at times, contemplating the secret world of which he was a reluctant part.

"...where did you come from, Timothy?" Carlisle asked. "We're a few hundred miles north of any slave state."

"Georgia," Timothy said. "I was born in New York actually—but after my father died, my mother and I left to live with relatives, and we were captured in Virginia. I was trained to be a house slave, and I've been a servant in several houses since then. Some people don't mind if their slaves can read, but others..."

Carlisle smiled. "I suspect some people might be uncomfortable, realizing they own a man who's smarter than they are."

Timothy chuckled grimly. "I think that's very likely. But my wife, well, she's even smarter than me. She's always been a house slave, but the old woman who owned her first didn't just make sure she could read, so she'd have someone to talk to about books and whatever else she took an interest in—she made sure Hannah had opinions too.

We met after Mr. Rawlins bought us both a few years ago. His father had died, so as the new man of the house, he wanted more servants so he could throw more parties and show everyone how well he was doing. But according to the other house slaves, Mr. Rawlins didn't have the head for business his father did. He's fared badly lately in several ventures, and about a month ago, my wife overheard from his wife that he was planning to sell me.

We talked about it, and though it was a terrible risk, I decided to take my chances and run away. My plan was to get off Rawlins' land on my own, then come back for my wife and children after I'd found a safe escape route. But when I was running from the dogs, I tripped and sprained my ankle. The men who caught me beat me within an inch of my life, then left me in a ditch. That was when…well, I guess you can imagine what happened next.

After...well, after I disappeared, and started going after men I'd known before...it seemed wise to get away for a while. I could hear people starting to whisper about it. Some said that it was my vengeful ghost, going after the people who'd wronged me in life. But others thought there was some secret slave uprising going on. I can't bear to endanger my family, but getting strangers hurt or killed is no better. I don't want anyone else to die for what I've done."

They talked for the rest of the night—about their lives, before and after death, and though Timothy seemed shocked at first at Carlisle's age, he liked hearing about all the places he'd seen and other immortals he'd known. Carlisle had to leave at dawn to go to work, and Timothy needed to hunt, but they met again the following night. Carlisle learned that Timothy, like his friend Liza, was particular in his choice of prey.

"There's a prison about a hundred miles from here," he explained, looking more relaxed (or rather, less thirsty) than the night before. "Prisons are the first place I started going to look, after I ran out of slavers I knew. I still have to pick and choose though—not every man's in there for murder."

"A friend of mine does that too," Carlisle said, smiling at the thought of the old vampire woman.

He and Timothy met and talked for several nights. Carlisle would go to work at dawn, and at dusk, he brought his new friend books and newspapers so he'd have something to do during the day; Carlisle distinctly remembered that any distraction from the thirst of the newborn was welcome. Timothy was clearly an intelligent man, and Carlisle wished he could introduce him to some of the doctors he knew who believed that race alone determined intellectual prowess. But of course, that would be impossible. Timothy was rightfully concerned about his ability to get close to humans without killing them. Though he seemed relieved to have someone to talk to, it was clear that there was something on his mind, something worrying him that was worse that thirst.

"I think there's something bothering you," Carlisle said, a week after they'd first met. "I mean, aside from the obvious. Whatever it is, I'd be happy to listen, if you want to talk about it."

"...I need to get my family away from there," Timothy said, his expression grim. "That was my hope, the first time I...when I killed a man in town. It was a kind of test, to see if I could get near people at all without killing. I jumped out the window with him—I had no quarrel with his wife and children—but forcing myself to leave them be was...a terrible struggle. It's so hard, just being close to people."

"The fact that you've been able to hunt specific people is itself a sign of considerable self-control," Carlisle said thoughtfully. "Of course, you're still very new to this life, and it's still dangerous for you to go too long without hunting."

Timothy shook his head. "I know. It would be so easy to make a mistake. I smell people, and...the wicked smell the same as their innocent children do. I don't want to kill people who aren't killers or worse themselves. So I'm afraid...if I were to go back for Hannah and our children..."

Timothy shuddered, and Carlisle could easily imagine the worst. He would be going to save them, but in doing so—just by being near them—he would doom them. The fragile self-control of the newborn couldn't bear carrying three humans away from bondage. No matter how much Timothy loved his family, he would be the death of them if he got too close.

"I understand," Carlisle said. "What would you like me to do for them?"

Timothy looked at him, startled, then quickly looked away. "...I wasn't sure how to ask. Carlisle, when I first spoke to you...I admit, it was because I knew I needed help. And I knew that only another vampire could do this. But since then, I have come to consider you a friend. I wouldn't ask you to take this risk if there were any other way."

Carlisle patted the man on the shoulder—he'd been human recently enough that he guessed the physical contact wouldn't be as strange or unwelcome as it would be to an older immortal. "Timothy, I consider you a friend as well. That's why I'd be glad to do what I can to help your family. What do you think would be the best way to get them to safety?"

"...steal them," Timothy said, after a pause. "Honestly, it'll be risky no matter what. I have money—we could arrange for you to buy them, but it would seem suspicious. And Rawlins...he doesn't like to sell particular slaves. That's just his way of throwing his weight around. He sells who he wants, and if a buyer asks for someone particular, then he'll set a price on them far too high for anyone to pay."

"Money doesn't worry me," Carlisle said firmly. "Between the two of us, I'm sure we'd have more than enough. But you're right: a public sale would attract attention, and neither of us needs that. I can carry a woman and two children away in the dead of night easily, but would there be problems after the fact?"

"Yes," Timothy said, looking both sad and furious. "That's something else that's been worrying me. If they disappear without a trace, Rawlins will take it out on his other slaves. He'll think someone helped them escape. Even if you were to leave money, and a note explaining that you took three slaves on a whim...well, that would all sound very far-fetched anyway."

"Where does your family live on Rawlins' property?" Carlisle asked.

"In a small cabin, near the road leading to the fields," Timothy said.

"Is the road used only by people from Rawlins' household, or do others use it too?"

"Sometimes, on Friday nights, wagons go by," Timothy said thoughtfully. "Families coming back from town, or young men going to dances use it as a shortcut."

"All right then," Carlisle said, smiling faintly. "Here's my idea..."

* * *

><p>The following Friday night, Carlisle stood outside the Jones' family cabin in Georgia, two letters in his hand and glass bottle in his pocket. He could hear dogs in the distance—presumably, they roamed the grounds of the plantation to encourage slaves to keep to their cabins at night—but Carlisle wasn't worried about them. Dogs always gave him a wide berth the instant they caught his scent.<p>

When he knocked on the door, Carlisle wasn't sure what to expect. The family was probably asleep, and though he came as a friend, he had no doubt that the people inside would be frightened of him at first, and only slightly less so when he told them what he could of Timothy. After a few seconds of movement inside, the door opened a crack.

"Yes?" a woman whispered, fearfully meeting his eyes.

"Mrs. Jones, my name is Carlisle Cullen," Carlisle said, keeping his voice very gentle and quiet. "Your husband Timothy asked me to visit you."

At the mention of Timothy's name, his wife opened the door, but her expression was still guarded.

"Do you know where he is?" she whispered.

Carlisle handed her the first letter he carried. "Yes. He asked me to give you this."

Mrs. Jones opened the letter and read it quickly. Carlisle knew the basics of what it said—Timothy hadn't dared tell his wife exactly what he'd become, but he'd wanted to assure her that he was as well as could be expected, and that he would send money to her and the children as often as he could. The letter also urged her to go with Carlisle, however strange he might seem. (Carlisle had been grateful for the addition of that part. After all, this woman had no reason to trust him, and only her husband's word—in a letter—and her certainty that this was really his handwriting, would convince her to leave her home in the dead of night with a stranger, her two children in tow.)

Finally, Hannah Jones met his eyes. "He says...you're a friend."

"Yes," Carlisle said. "I'm here to help you and your children get away from here, and resettle somewhere safe."

Mrs. Jones looked stunned. "...how?" Then she glanced behind him, into the darkness outside. "You don't have a horse or wagon—did you come on foot?"

"Yes, ma'am," Carlisle said, impressed that she had noticed. As a doctor, he'd often found occasion to knock on doors in the dead of night, and in his experience, usually people took him at face value. They needed his help, or they were worried about the news he might give them, so they didn't think to ask why he hadn't ridden a horse to their home way out in the country, or how he had managed to arrive so quickly. Hannah Jones clearly wasn't that sort of human though—she noticed when something was off.

"But then...why didn't the dogs..." she stammered, and then she glanced from the letter Timothy had written and back to Carlisle. He guessed that the letter contained some allusion to the fact that there was something strange about him.

"Please, come inside," she said quietly. "This is a shock, but it's—it's a welcome one. After Timothy disappeared, I was afraid...I thought we would never see him again."

Carlisle tried not to wince. After all, she probably never would see her husband again—it might be years before he could control his thirst enough to safely approach humans for anything other than hunting. And even then, it wouldn't be safe to reenter his family's lives. They could never know what he had become, and though Carlisle believed that Timothy understood this, it would still be hard, knowing Hannah would be on her own, and that his children were growing up without him.

"Mama, who's—" a little boy started to say, his voice sleepy.

"Shh," Hannah said gently. "This man's a friend. He knows your daddy."

"You know where daddy is?" an even smaller girl demanded, pulling a thin blanket away from herself and running over to the adults in a much-mended nightshirt.

"I do," Carlisle said. "He asked me to take you someplace safe. If we leave now, I can have the three of you in Cincinnati in about nine hours."

"But how are we going to travel without a wagon?" Mrs. Jones asked.

Carlisle smiled. "That's one of the..._unusual_ things about me that your husband's letter was referring to. I'm strong enough to carry the three of you. And I'm fast—very fast. Shall I demonstrate?"

Mrs. Jones gaped at him for a moment, then nodded slowly. "I…suppose so..."

Carlisle opened the door and stepped outside, and Mrs. Jones followed him, her children peeking out from behind her back. Carlisle took off running, picked up a boulder that sat on the other side of the nearest field, then carried it back in less time than it took Mrs. Jones to wonder where he'd gone. She stared at the boulder that he held in one hand.

"Whoa!" the little boy shrieked. "How did you—"

"That rock's bigger than a horse!" the little girl cried.

"Shh!" Mrs. Jones said quickly. There were other cabins only about twenty yards away.

"How fast can you run?" she whispered.

"With passengers, I think about fifty miles per hour is as fast as I dare run," Carlisle said, returning the boulder to its original place after Mrs. Jones and her children had stared at it for a few seconds. "Let's go back inside for a moment."

"We'll need to leave this here," Carlisle continued, handing a second letter to Mrs. Jones. "Timothy and I thought that this might prevent Mr. Rawlins from taking his anger out on the other slaves when he realizes you're gone."

Hannah Jones read the letter quickly, amazement slowly growing on her face:

_Dear Sir,_

_I do not know you, but last night, my brother and I were coming back from a party when we passed by this cabin, and my brother took it into his head to destroy some of your property. We live in Atlanta, and for reasons that will soon become clear, I do not wish to volunteer our names, but as you can probably gather from the state of this place, my brother is a mean drunk. I myself was quite intoxicated as well, and it wasn't until a friend of ours passed along this same road and saw our wagon that the situation was contained. _

_The slaves inside this cabin, a woman and two children, were killed by my brother in some mad fit of drunken rage. I believe the mother was taken by surprise and died before she could even scream, and her children were similarly terrified into silence, because no one in the cabins nearby seemed to notice any commotion. After he'd killed them, he simply sat in the middle of the room, his anger apparently exhausted by his efforts._

_When our friend and I realized what had happened, we were able to master ourselves enough to remove my brother from your land, and though he went willingly, we restrained him in the wagon until such time as he became sober again, for our own safety. We wrapped the bodies in some blankets and took them away with us in the hope that we might avoid any unpleasant legal proceedings, and enclosed with this letter are sufficient funds to compensate you for your loss._

_My sincerest apologies for any inconvenience this situation may cause. My brother is not in his right head, and is not allowed alcohol under ordinary circumstances. Our father died a few weeks ago, and as such, we have been lenient with him, but please rest assured that we will not pass this way again, nor will I allow my brother such freedom in the future. Please understand that I make restitution in such a secretive way not for my own sake, but for that of my family. My dear mother can never know what my brother has done, and should it ever come to light, I fear it would break her heart._

_Yours truly,_

_An apologetic traveler_

"There's...the money in the envelope is enough to pay for us. But...but how will we make it look like..." She trailed off uneasily and looked at Carlisle, who produced a bottle from his pocket.

"Blood," he explained. "From a deer," he hastened to add when Mrs. Jones jumped. "I went hunting last night and collected this. Because of what it says in the letter, you can take blankets with you, but not much else."

Hannah Jones smiled wryly. "We don't have much else to take."

After Hannah and her son and daughter had gathered the blankets off their pallets and piled them near the door, Carlisle began drizzling deer blood around the room in odd spatters, to simulate a scene of recent violence. The children watched him raptly, so he offered the boy, the older of the two, the bottle to hold.

"Want to try?" he said. "Just dump it on the floor and on your pallets, so it makes a mess."

"Is it really okay, mama?" the little boy asked, looking at his mother like she'd lost her mind.

"It's fine, baby. We're going to trick some people."

"I wanna make a mess too!" the little girl said, so her brother handed her the bottle, and they took turns dripping blood all over the room. It was macabre, certainly, but the children thought it was all a game, and Carlisle decided it was better to play at such a thing than to stay here and risk real violence as a cruel man's property.

"Wrap the blankets around yourselves," Carlisle said, helping Mrs. Jones to get the children ready. He could hold one effortlessly in each arm, and then Mrs. Jones, after tying a blanket around herself like a cloak, hesitantly climbed onto his back. Carlisle then tied a rope around her waist, and that of each child, and tied them to him, just to be safe. (They'd be at best badly hurt if they fell off while he was running at top speed.) "We can only travel by night, so as not to attract attention. Ready?"

"Yes," Mrs. Jones said quietly. Carlisle guessed from the flush on her face that she was embarrassed to be clinging to a strange man's back, but it was clear that any chance to get her children safely away from this place, no matter how unusual, was worth taking.

As Carlisle started running, he contemplated the family's situation. He could send them money, and as Timothy learned to better control his thirst, he too could learn some trade that would allow him to send aid to his wife and children. They would be alone in a strange city, and though Timothy would doubtless risk exposure by sending them letters, words on paper were a poor substitute for a living man.

But Carlisle was optimistic. After all, he had a new friend, and that friend's human family, while perhaps not in enviable circumstances, would at least be free now. Carlisle had accepted long ago that he couldn't save every life, couldn't help every human in need who crossed his path. But tonight, he could help these people: he could carry them to a better life, and as soon as they were safe, he would disappear. First though, he would run until sunrise.


	20. 1853

Hi everyone! Sorry for yet another long delay in updating: it's summer, which is the busiest time of year if you work at a library, but I'm finally starting to catch up with things since my vacation last week. Also, I have a new kitten at home, but since she was not on vacation with me, I got a lot more typing done since there was not an adorable lunatic attacking my feet every time I paid more attention to the computer than her. :)

This chapter takes place in the 1850s, because in 1842, Charles Dickens wrote a popular book about traveling in America called _American Notes_. I'm sure that Liza would have read it, and probably shared it with friends, so this chapter deals with her, a new young vampire, and Timothy, who we met in the last chapter, visiting Carlisle to see some of his favorite sites in North America. Thanks for your reviews, and for waiting so graciously for updates, and I'll see you again soon(-ish)!

Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer, not I, is the author of _Twilight_.

_1853: American Notes_

It was a cool, cloudy day, and as Carlisle watched Liza and two other people step out of a wagon, he frowned. Under ordinary circumstances, the horses pulling said wagon should have been in a panic, given their close proximity to not one but _four _vampires. But they were calm, docile even—unusually so.

"Hello, dear," Liza said, enveloping him in a brisk hug for the benefit of any humans who might be watching. As she did so, she whispered, "Laudanum. Works a treat if you don't use too much. I slipped some into their water trough when we reached the station."

Carlisle shook his head, then helped unload the luggage from the wagon before paying the driver. As the wagon pulled away from Carlisle's house, which sat at the end of a quiet street on the edge of Springfield, he smiled at his visitors.

"Someday, I hope we can all travel comfortably without having to drug any horses. So, are you going to introduce me?"

Liza nodded to the man beside her. "You already know Mr. Jones, of course."

"Good to see you again, Timothy," Carlisle said, shaking his hand.

Timothy smiled. "It's been too long, old friend."  
>Timothy Jones, in the years since his transformation, had found a creative way to support his human family: he'd become a writer, and he'd spent much of the past decade traveling and gathering material for novels. Carlisle had helped with the publication of Timothy's first books by acting as his agent and delivering manuscripts to his publisher in America. He had then delivered money made from the sale of those novels to Timothy's family.<p>

When Timothy had expressed a desire to go abroad—being geographically close to his family but unable to see them as years passed had been difficult—Liza had offered to become his agent in Europe. In part, this was because a man of his color (Alexandre Dumas being a notable exception) might not be treated equitably when trying to sell a book. However, asking others to appear in public on his behalf was mostly because Timothy was still cautious about getting too close to humans unless he was very well fed. (Of course, he had some human representatives in the publishing world now, but they had never actually met him. Carlisle agreed that this probably helped Timothy's reputation—and his sales—by heightening his mystique.)

"And this young lady is Sally Young," Liza said, offering the hand of a pretty young vampire woman with red hair. "I found her feasting on her former pimp just off of Whitechapel a few years ago—a girl after my own heart."

The young vampire rolled her eyes. "_Really_, Liza. Please tell Mr. Cullen something a little more flattering about me."

"I have dear, in numerous letters," Liza said briskly. Carlisle shook the young lady's hand politely and they smiled at each other—it was clear that Sally was also aware of Liza's attempts at matchmaking. However, Carlisle knew from having exchanged a few letters with Sally herself that she was no more interested in him that he was in her: she had her eye on someone else.

"Well, it's very good to meet you in person at last. Liza's told me so many amusing stories," Sally went on, opening a dainty parasol as the sun emerged from behind a cloud. Carlisle and Timothy stepped into the shadow of the tree that stood beside the former's house, and Liza, shielded beneath her hat, clicked her tongue disapprovingly.

"I suppose we'd better make our way indoors for the time being. Are there any nosy neighbors we should worry about?"

"Not that I know of," Carlisle said, glancing at the houses closest to his. "And if I do, it will scarcely matter if they comment on my visitors. It's about time I moved on to another town anyway."

"How long have you been here?" Timothy asked. "The last letter I had from you, you were still in Pittsburgh."

"I've only been here about four months," Carlisle said, "but this is only a temporary arrangement."

"Really? How so?" Sally wondered. "I thought your diet allowed you to stay in one place longer than the rest of us."

"Well, to be honest, it's about time I went back to medical school. Reading about current advances in surgery can only take me so far, and a lot has changed in the past decade. I decided to move here for a little peace and quiet—when I'm at the university in New York in the fall, I won't have much in the way of rural tranquility."

Timothy nodded. "I don't know how you stand it. I've seen a few lecture halls from a distance, but the thought of sitting in one, surrounded by humans, and not attacking anyone still seems impossible."

"It did to me too at first, but it gets easier with every passing year," Carlisle said. "So, how was the crossing from Europe?"

"Ugh, ghastly," Liza said. "Thank heavens there was a bit of a brawl on the ship—three men killed four others before they were apprehended, so we...er, helped ourselves. Otherwise it would have been rats the whole way, and I'm not sure I trust my self control enough to eat nothing but rats for weeks."

Carlisle sighed. "Well, I'm both glad and sorry that things worked out in your favor, so to speak."

Inside, Carlisle's visitors unpacked their belongings (mostly clothing and books) before convening around a table—one of the house's few pieces of furniture—to discuss their plans.

"So, what does our itinerary look like?" Timothy asked. In answer, Carlisle spread out a map of the United States and pointed to a thin line he'd drawn, indicating their basic route.

"Obviously, this map is incomplete, so I've added a few notes about sites and settlements that I've discovered myself," Carlisle said, pointing to symbols indicating landmarks like canyons, geysers, and mountains he'd run past while hunting in the American wilderness. They were incredible sites that Carlisle knew Americans would be quick to claim as they made their way slowly west toward the ocean, but for now, they were places that could be visited and enjoyed inconspicuously by vampires, if they were so inclined. Carlisle certainly was, and he was happy to finally be visiting some of the wonders he'd discovered with friends.

"We'll be heading west at first, then southwest before turning north. We'll go past all of the places I've circled on the map," Carlisle explained. "It should only take us a few days to see everything, though of course we can stop for longer if we're so inclined. There are a few tribes of natives in the north and southwest, but for the most part, they don't frequent these places. Some have religious significance, but the natives are mostly nomadic, and they don't live in any of these locations all year round. As for food, well..."

"I've already drafted a list of every prison in the country," Timothy said. "We can take care of feeding when we get back."

"Murderers only Carlisle, don't worry," Liza said archly, and Carlisle nodded, not completely satisfied with his friends' diet, but knowing that he couldn't very well change it. The fact that Timothy, Liza, and presumably Sally were selective in their victims was something, though not enough for Carlisle to condone it. Still, he thought it was better to try and be an example to his friends—to show them it was possible to live differently—than to constantly lecture them about their eating habits.

"It's fantastic to finally be here and get to see the sites. Ever since Liza loaned me her copy of _American Notes_, I've been curious about this country," Sally said cheerfully. "It's so huge, and there's still so much of it that hasn't been discovered by humans yet."

"Or if it has, at least they have the courtesy to not live there all the time," Liza said dryly. "Though I suppose that's mostly because these beautiful out of the way places are uninhabitable—it's not really for our benefit. Still, we might as well take advantage. I believe we're ready to leave when you are, dear."

"Let's head out then," Carlisle said.

* * *

><p>Over the next several days, the four of them did a lot of running, with occasional stops to enjoy the scenery around them at a more leisurely pace. They visited a great rock that looked like a chimney; an incredible geyser that erupted reliably every hour or two; and a huge canyon that was one of the most beautiful things Carlisle had ever seen in his very long life. Then there were the beautiful mountains and fantastically barren deserts. Timothy and Sally especially loved these places: Carlisle had the impression that in such a strange landscape, so far removed from their old lives, they could pretend that they had traveled to another world, and left all of their old heartbreaks behind. He and Liza, Carlisle suspected, were too old and world-weary to lose themselves in such a fantasy, no matter how appealing it might be.<p>

One day, they stopped at a huge lake not far from the Pacific. There, Timothy paused to write a letter to his publisher back in London about all the material he was gathering in America, and Sally stopped to sketch the scenery. Carlisle stood beside the lake and enjoyed the view, though when he heard Liza approaching him, he knew that the moment of tranquility he'd just been enjoying was over.

"So," Liza said cheerfully, perching on the rock beside Carlisle's. "How have you been holding up, dear?"

"I know what this is, Liza," Carlisle said, lowering his voice. Sally was standing about a mile away, but he wanted to be certain that she didn't overhear him. Though it was clear that she wasn't really interested in him, he didn't want to be rude. "You're hoping I fall in love with Sally."

"And why would that be so ridiculous?" Liza wondered. "She's a very pretty girl, very accomplished—"

"Accomplished?" Carlisle repeated blankly. "Is that—that's not an innuendo, is it?"

"Well, it is if you want to take it that way," Liza said, chuckling. "All I meant was that since she's been dead, she's been making time for all the things she never had the opportunity to do when she was alive. You know—drawing, embroidery, that sort of thing. She wants to make someone a good wife someday..."

"Aside from the fact that I think the expectations placed on vampire wives are very different from those placed on human wives, I really don't think she's interested in me," Carlisle said, nodding at the distant figures of Sally and Timothy, whose heads were bent together, either discussing her drawing or his letter.

"Oh. That," Liza said darkly, shaking her head. "The trouble there is his wife is still alive. It doesn't matter that he's divided from her. He can't forget her, or his children, no matter how he feels about Sally. And she respects the life he's lost. Women of Sally's former profession aren't always the most principled people—to survive, they can't be—but she's an honorable girl, in her own way."

"I assume you've talked with them about this," Carlisle said, certain that Liza had brought up the subject many times. "They could marry, if they wanted to."

"Of course I have, but they insist that they're only dear friends," Liza said, clearly annoyed. "It pains me to watch two people who clearly care about each other being so...proper. They never get too close, never push the boundaries of friendship too far. It's rather irritating, actually."

"They're young, and they probably need time to mourn the people they used to be," Carlisle said quietly. "I certainly did. Give them a few years, and I think they'll be able to be happy together."

Liza snorted. "Just because I have all the time in the world doesn't mean I enjoy waiting for things, you know."

"Were you really hoping that I might help Sally forget Timothy?" Carlisle wondered.

"I was hoping that she would like you, and that you would like her, and that you might have a bit of fun for once in your life," Liza said irritably, poking him in the chest. "You're lonely—don't bother denying it. I know how our kind get set in our ways, but you might _try_ living with someone else, you know."

Carlisle shook his head. "I couldn't do that, Liza. My dietary difference—"

"Sally wouldn't mind," Liza said firmly. "She's the most xenophilic creature I've ever met. Everything new and unfamiliar interests her."

"But_ I_ would mind," Carlisle said gently. "You're my friend, Liza—the best one I've ever had. But I couldn't live like you do, and I couldn't pretend that I didn't mind sharing a home with someone who has to kill a human for every meal."

"I know it's a sin to you, but I'd argue that what we do is morally wrong but ethically right," Liza said, in a tone familiar to Carlisle from the other occasions when she'd tried to convince him of the merits of her diet. "Obviously, it's morally wrong to kill people, no matter what they've done. But ethically, isn't it right to make sure that people who have committed terrible crimes never have the chance to do so again?"

"In a way, that's true—from an ethical perspective. But from a moral and practical point of view, it's not. Remember that very few people escape from prison," Carlisle said. "And the point of prison is to keep people who have committed crimes away from the rest of the human population until they've paid their debt to society.

Of course, when no amount of time in prison can make up for what someone has done, there's execution, but even that isn't really a suitable punishment. Aside from the fact that executing someone for a crime doesn't undo it, humans and the laws they've created can make mistakes. That's why I can't condone what you do—innocent people are, at times, confined to prisons for crimes they haven't committed. And besides: whether I was feeding on a guilty person or an innocent one, _I_ would feel guilty."

Liza was quiet for a moment. "Your life would be so much easier if you could get over that feeling, you know."

Carlisle smiled grimly. "It might be. But I don't think so. You said yourself that our kind get set in our ways. How I hunt...it's a part of who I am. And I know that the way you hunt is a part of you too. You try to feed in a way you feel is right: you only take the lives of people you believe the world would be better off rid of. You've taught Sally to do the same, and I know Timothy hunts that way too. I can accept that, because we're friends. But I could never do it myself, and I don't think I could live with someone doing it either."

"So you'd rather be alone forever than compromise your principles at all?" Liza said sadly, taking his hand.

Carlisle nodded slowly. "I suppose that if I have to choose...then that's the choice I'll make. Or maybe someday I'll find someone else like me."

Liza bit her lip. "I'm not sure how much chance there is of that. You might have to turn someone, though convincing a thirsty newborn to live like you do can't be easy."

Carlisle frowned. "I'd rather not make that compromise either."

Liza raised her eyebrows. "But you haven't ruled it out entirely."

Carlisle smiled sadly. "I'm not as much of a martyr as you think I am, Liza. I can be selfish too. At least...I can imagine a scenario where I might change someone, if I couldn't help it. But so far I've been able to. I still can't imagine dooming anyone else to this life. However...I can imagine someday, being desperate enough, to consider it at least."

Liza rolled her eyes. "Yes Carlisle, you are _very_ selfish when speaking hypothetically."

Carlisle nodded at Sally and Timothy, who were sprinting toward them. "Well, shall we press on?"

"I've finished a letter that I think will reassure my publisher about my sudden decision to travel," Timothy said, smiling at Sally. "And Ms. Young has agreed to illustrate my next book."

"Yes, it's going to be so much fun!" Sally said eagerly. "I've already done some lovely sketches. I'm not quite as good as that fellow who illustrates Mr. Dickens' books, but I know I shall continue to improve with practice."

"I'm sure you shall, dear," Liza said, taking Sally's arm. "Come now, let's see if we can't outrun these young men."

As the two women took off, laughing, Timothy looked at Carlisle. "When I was human, I would have thought it was only chivalrous to let them win. But now I have a feeling that they wouldn't appreciate us going easy on them."

Carlisle smiled. "I'm sure you're right."

As they took off running, Carlisle could almost ignore the difference in hunting habits that divided him from his friends. He was glad to know them all, glad that he wasn't entirely alone in the world, but still, it would be nice to know someone whose diet he could condone. Carlisle wondered, as he often did, if he was destined for a solitary life. But when he thought of all the amazing things he'd seen, all the strange times he'd been witness too, the thought of meeting someone like him didn't seem so impossible.


	21. 1862

Hi everyone! Sorry that this chapter took so long to materialize (I'm really sorry!), but I did National Novel Writing Month again last year, and I'm still working to catch up on fanfic. This chapter takes place during the Civil War, and it deals with a real medical mystery that occurred during the Battle of Shiloh. (Spoiler alert: the glow described below was caused by helpful bacteria which slowed down the harmful bacteria that would normally cause infections. Read more here:  /2014/02/15/10-strange-mysteries-of-the-civil-war/)

Thanks for reading, and I'll see you again soon(ish)! :)

Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer, not I, is the author of _Twilight_.

_1862: The Angel's Glow_

After nearly two years of watching the conflict between the United States and the so-called Confederate States of America, Carlisle was tired. Not physically, of course, but mentally, because he couldn't see what good could ever come of so many men and boys slaughtering one another. Every war in this century was worse than the last, because humans were always building better guns and bigger cannons, but the men who went to war weren't getting any more durable, and Carlisle had seen things in this conflict that he would never forget.

Being a vampire meant he couldn't simply up and join the army, but it was easy enough to acquire the uniform of a medic and begin sneaking onto battlefields. Since he wasn't enlisted, Carlisle had to be careful not to attract attention, and as soon as people started asking questions about him, he'd disappear. Fortunately (or unfortunately, in Carlisle's mind), thanks to the chaos inherent to most battles, it often took several weeks or months before anyone noticed that Carlisle didn't belong.

The wounds he treated were often impossible to heal, given the current state of medical science. All Carlisle could do was make the men he treated as comfortable as possible until they died, but even that was a challenge on the battlefield, where it always seemed to be too warm, or too cold, or too muddy, or too crowded with disease and infection. Then there was the mysterious Army Itch, which could strike otherwise healthy men with swelling of the skin that burst into horrible blisters that oozed pus and apparently itched like mad. Carlisle did what he could, but one of the hardest parts of being a doctor was being witness to suffering that he was powerless to stop.

He wondered if medicine would ever catch up with military technology—Carlisle hoped to live long enough to see doctors able to treat the injuries that generals sent their men marching into. He suspected that he would have to live a few more centuries, or perhaps millennia, before such a thing happened though—after all, men were usually considered more expendable than the weapons they fought with.

Though no stranger to the unusual, Carlisle was still struck by the things he saw at the Battle of Shiloh. Albert, the young man assisting him as a medic, followed him onto the battlefield when the worst of the fighting was over, carrying their supplies and trying to hold his breath because of the smell. They were going to treat the wounded as best they could, but Carlisle wasn't hopeful: most of the injured men had been lying where they fell for hours, and in some cases days. But after taking just a few steps into the field, Carlisle saw something strange. Then he heard Albert gasp.

_So human eyes can see it too_, he mused, staring out into the field.

"Sir...what is it?" Albert whispered.

"I don't know," Carlisle said honestly. "Let's go take a closer look."

Other medics and soldiers were slowly venturing into the field as well, murmuring in quiet astonishment or praying fervently when they saw the mysterious light. Carlisle wasn't certain at first, but as he and Albert made their way through the field, it soon became clear that the soldiers with the strange glow illuminating their wounds were, in most instances, still alive, though in many cases badly wounded. The glow, whatever it was, seemed to be healing them, or at least keeping them alive when there was no logical explanation for how such a thing could be possible.

"Sir, look," Albert said, pointing out a particularly nasty wound in a man's leg. Under normal circumstances, after days without treatment, a leg in that condition would have to be removed, and even then, the man would have probably died. But this man's leg was healing surprisingly well. When Carlisle looked closely, examining the wound through the light that enveloped it, he could see that it wasn't the death sentence it would normally be. The man was unconscious from the pain, but with rest and clean bandages, he would probably live.

It reminded Carlisle of the glow of a lightning bug, and as he looked closer, he realized that some form of bioluminescence was almost certainly the source of the glow. But that was the scientist in him talking. Another, more basic part of him wanted to believe that this was divine intervention, and it was hard to dispute the evidence before his eyes.

"It's a miracle," Albert whispered. "It's like angels are laying hands on them."

"...yes it is," Carlisle said quietly, and he meant it, but he knew that this miracle was more complicated than that. There were insects in the festering wounds of many of the injured men. Normally, that would be a bad sign, but he wondered if, in this case, they weren't the source of the glow.

A cursory examination of the wounded men he and Albert treated told Carlisle that those with glowing wounds were healing better than those without. Physicians had once relied on the supposed healing properties of leeches, and though that technique had been debunked some time ago, Carlisle wondered if there wasn't something here he couldn't see; something the insects carried, perhaps in their saliva, that was a sort of healing agent. This phenomenon seemed to support that idea—but Carlisle wasn't about to suggest his theory to Albert or the other medics.

Whether God was working through angels or through the saliva of insects, it did seem to be a miracle, and a miracle was what every medic hoped for after a terrible battle like the one at Shiloh. At night, while he pretended to sleep, Carlisle sometimes heard Albert praying, asking God to ease the suffering of the men whose wounds they treated. Perhaps this was an answer to his prayers, and to Carlisle's prayers as well.

Carlisle was determined to dedicate his immortal life to helping others, to healing the sick and comforting the wounded. However, he knew that his reasons for practicing medicine weren't entirely altruistic. He loved being a doctor because he could make the world a better place, could make the lives of mortals easier, but he also loved the way that his work kept him connected to the living, kept him working alongside young men like Albert, who genuinely cared about others and wished to ease their suffering. Genuine empathy was as rare as it was a privilege to witness.

Being a doctor meant experiencing moments like this one, when he could look out into a field of injured men, their wounds glowing with a faint light, and glimpse a different kind of immortality. Those who witnessed the Angel's Glow would never forget it, Carlisle included. And seeing something unforgettable, something he could speculate about but couldn't entirely explain, made Carlisle feel as small and helpless as a living man. No matter how long he lived, Carlisle knew that he would never tire of miracles, because they made him feel, if only for a moment, almost alive again.


End file.
